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A  Collection  of  Quotations 
Instructive  and  Sentimental 
Gathered  and  Arranged  by 


Decorations  by  SPENCER  WRIGHT 
Published  by  PAUL  ELDER  & 
Co.,  San  Francisco  and  New  York 


Copyright   1906,   by 

So  many  interesting  books  have 
been  published  of  late  about  gardens 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  the  subject 
were  well  nigh  exhausted. 

Notwithstanding  that  this  is  the 
general  opinion,  one  well  versed  in 
garden-lore  has  sensibly  written: 
"As  there  must  be  many  gardeners, 
so  there  must  be  many  books.  There 
must  be  books  for  different  persons 
and  different  ideals" 

Hence,  the  compiler  of  this  little 
volume  does  not  offer  an  apology  to 
the  public  for  presenting  it,  but 
rather  to  the  neighbours  whose  at- 
tractive gardens  she  has  entered 
without  an  invitation,  and  for 
plucking  a  choice  posy  now  and  then 
without  permission. 


What  Is  a  Garden  ? 

The  First  Garden 


The  Wondrous  Gardens 

Mediaeval  Gardens 

Monastic  Gardens 

Old-Fashioned  Gardens 

Old-Fashioned  Flowers 

Old  English  Gardens 

Gardens  of  the  Orient 

Dutch  Gardens 

German  Gardens 

Italian  Gardens 

Spanish  Gardens 

National  Flowers 

The  Garden  of  Childhood 

Anent  Gardeners 

The  Location  for  a  Garden 

The  Garden  in  Spring 

Autumn  Flowers 

White  Flowers 

Blue  Flowers 

The  Rose 

The  Poppy 

Concerning  Seed 


Art  in  Gardens 

Fountains    - 

The  Sun-Dial 

Women  and  Gardens    - 

Flowers  and  Books 


The  Poet's  Garden 

Flowers  for  Thoughts 

Garden  Friendships 

The  Love  of  Flowers 

The  Gardens  of  the  Poor 

The  Smell  of  a  Garden 

Gardens  of  the  Sea 

The  Garden  at  Even 

Garden  Songs 

Gardens  of  the  Soul 

91$  a 

By  a  garden  is  meant  mystically  a  place  of  spirit- 
ual repose,  stillness,  peace,  refreshment,  delight. 

Cardinal  Newman. 

The  word  garden  is  a  never-ceasing  delight,  it 
seems  to  me  Oriental, —  perhaps  I  have  a  transmitted 
sense  from  my  grandmother  Eve  of  the  Garden  of 

Eden>  Alice  Morse  Earle. 

A  Garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot ! 
Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Fern'd  grot — 

The  veriest  school 
Of  Peace ;  and  yet  the  fool 

Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God !  in  gardens !  when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 
Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign; 
'  Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 

Thomas  Edward  Brown. 

Perhaps  no  word  of  six  letters  concentrates  so 
much  human  satisfaction  as  the  word  "garden." 
Not  accidentally,  indeed,  did  the  inspired  writer 
make  Paradise  a  garden:  and  still  to-day,  when  a 
man  has  found  all  the  rest  of  the  world  vanity,  he 
retires  into  his  garden. 

When  man  needs  just  one  word  to  express  in 
rich  and  poignant  symbol  his  sense  of  accumulated 
beauty  and  blessedness,  his  first  thought  is  of  a  gar- 
den. The  saint  speaks  of  "  The  Garden  of  God." 
"  A  garden  enclosed  is  my  sister,  my  spouse,"  cries 
the  lover;  or,  "There  is  a  garden  in  her  face,"  he 
sings;  and  the  soldier's  stern  dream  is  of  a  "  garden 
of  swords."  The  word  "  heaven"  itself  is  hardly 
universally  expressive  of  human  happiness 


than  the  word  "garden." 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 


If  I  were  to  choose  a  motto  over  the  gate  of  a 
garden,  I  should  choose  the  remark  which  Socrates 
made  as  he  saw  the  luxuries  in  the  market:  "How 
much  there  is  in  the  world  that  I  do  not  want!"  * 

L.  H.  Bailey 

We  have  no  reason  to  think  that  for  many  cen- 
turies the  term  garden  implied  more  than  a  kitchen- 
garden  or  orchard.  When  a  Frenchman  reads  of 
the  Garden  of  Eden,  I  do  not  doubt  but  he  con- 
cludes it  was  something  approaching  to  that  of  Ver- 
sailles, with  dipt  hedges,  berceaus  and  trelliswork. 
If  his  devotion  humbles  him  so  far  as  to  allow  that, 
considering  who  designed  it,  there  might  be  a  laby- 
rinth full  of  .flisop's  fables,  yet  he  does  not  conceive 
that  four  of  the  largest  rivers  in  the  world  were  half 
so  magnificent  as  a  hundred  fountains  full  of  statues 
by  Girardon.  It  is  thus  that  the  word  garden  has  at 
all  times  passed  for  whatever  was  understood  by  that 
term  in  different  countries.  But  that  it  meant  no 
more  than  a  kitchen-garden  or  orchard  for  several 
centuries,  is  evident  from  those  few  descriptions 
that  are  preserved  of  the  most  famous  gardens  of 
antiquity.  Horace  Walpole. 

Gardening  is  practised  for  food's  sake  in  a  kitchen 
and  orchard,  or  for  pleasure's  sake  in  a  green  grass- 
plot  and  an  arbour.  Johjj  Amos  Ctm€nitUf 

Clje  <fftt#t  d&ar&en 

God  Almightie  first  planted  a  Garden  *  *  *  and 
indeed  it  is  the  Purest  of  Humane  Pleasures,  it  is 
the  Greatest  Refreshment  to  the  Spirits  of  Man. 

Francis  Bacon  {Lord  Verulam}. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  punishment 
of  the  first  gardener  and  his  wife  was  the  bitterest 
of  all.  To  have  lived  always  in  a  garden  "where 
grew  every  tree  pleasant  to  the  sight  and  good  fpr 

food,"  to  have  known  no  other  place,  and  then  to 
have  been  driven  forth  into  the  great  world  without 
hope  of  returning !  O  Eve,  had  you  not  desired 
wisdom,  your  happy  children  might  still  be  tilling 
the  soil  of  that  blessed  Eden!  *  *.  *  And  then,  to 
leave  the  lovely  place  at  the  loveliest  of  all  times 
in  a  garden,  the  cool  of  the  day  !  Faint  sunset 
hues  tinting  the  sky,  the  night  breeze  gently  stirring 
the  trees;  lilies  and  roses  giving  their  sweetest  per- 
fume, brilliant  Venus  mounting  her  accustomed  path, 
while  the  sleepy  twitter  of  the  birds  alone  break  the 
silence  !  Then  the  voice  of  wrath,  the  Cherubim, 
the  turning  flaming  sword !  Helgn  Ruthurford  ^ 

A  Garden  was  the  habitation  of  our  first  parents 
before  the  fall.  It  is  naturally  apt  to  fill  the  mind 
with  calmness  and  tranquillity,  and  to  lay  all  its  tur- 
bulent passions  at  rest.  It  gives  us  a  great  insight 
into  the  contrivance  and  wisdom  of  Providence,  and 
suggests  innumerable  subjects  for  meditation. 

Joseph  Addison. 

The  New  Eden 

When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell, 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight — 
These  left  the  garden, — these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

The  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung : 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

*  *   *   Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 
Now  nearer,  crowns  with  her  enclosure  green, 
As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champian  head 
Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides 
With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque  and  wild, 
Access  denied;  and  overhead  up-grew 
Insuperable  hight  of  loftiest  shade, 
Cedar  and  Pine  and  fir,  and  branching  palm, 
A  sylvan  scene,  and,  as  the  ranks  ascend 
Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view.  * 

Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  which  not  nice  Art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Pour'd  forth  profuse  on  hill  and  dale  and  plain. 

Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose. 
Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 
Luxuriant;  meanwhile  murm'ring  waters  fall 
Down  the  slope  hill,  dispers'd  or  in  a  lake 
.  That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crown'd 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 

John  Milton. 

I  hold  that  the  whole  world  was  named  a  Para- 
dise. Moses  describes  it  according  to  Adam's  sight, 
so  far  as  hee  could  see;  but  it  was  called  Paradise 
by  reason  it  was  all  over  so  sweet  and  pleasant. 
Adam  was,  and  dwelled  towards  the  East  in  Syria 
and  Arabia,  when  hee  was  created;  but  after  he  had 
sinned,  then  it  was  no  more  so  delightful  and  pleasant. 

Even  so  in  our  time  hath  God  cursed  likewise 
fruitful  lands,  and  hath  caused  them  to  bee  barren 
and  unfruitful  by  reason  of  our  sins :  for  where  God 
gives  not  His  blessing,  there  grows  nothing  that  is 











/  // 





















?/  /3/ 


good  and  profitable;  but  where  He  blesseth,  there 
all  things  grow  plentifully,  and  are  fruitful. 

Martin  Luther. 

God,  the  first  garden  made,  and  the   first  city, 

Abraham  Cowley. 

Had  Eve  a  spade  in  Paradise  and  known  what 
to  do  with  it,  we  should  not  have  had  all  that  bad 
business  of  the  apple. 

"Elizabeth  and  Her  German  Garden" 

(  Countess  Von  Arnim.  ) 

€Ije  l^ontrcoHg  d&artieng 

The  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon  (gate  of  God), 
anciently  reckoned  among  the  Seven  Wonders  of  the 
World,  were  constructed  by  Nebuchadnezzar,  King 
of  the  Jews,  about  the  fifth  century  before  Christ. 
They  stand  in  history  as  a  testimonial  to  a  woman  s 
influence.  Nebuchadnezzar  had  married  him  a  wife, 
the  Median  princess  Amytis,  whose  heart  yearned 
for  the  hills  and  trees  of  her  native  land,  and  the 
monarch,  in  order  to  gratify  her,  raised  this  prodig- 
ious structure,  400  feet  square,  upon  the  west  bank 
of  the  river  Euphrates,  where  the  ruins  are  marked 
even  to  this  day. 

The  famous  pensile  gardens  of  Babylon,  built 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowded  city,  were  divided  into 
four  terraces,  each  100  feet  wide,  the  highest  adjoin- 
ing the  river  ;  it  rose  in  |four  mighty  steps  of  20  feet 
each,  to  its  topmost  grade  from  80  to  100  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  ground. 

Massive  piers  of  brick  supported  it,  and  between 
them  ran,  entering  from  each  side,  twelve  vaulted 
passageways,  each  10  feet  wide,  which  were  open  to 
traffic,  or  available  for  rooms  and  offices.  Over  the 
piers  giant  blocks  of  stone  were  laid  to  support  the 
.mass  above,  and  these  were  joined  by  meshes  of 

reeds  set  in  cement,  above  which  were  layers  of 
tiles,  also  set  in  cement;  and  again  above  these 
great  sheets  of  lead,  carefully  joined  so  as  to  protect 
the  walls  of  the  building  from  the  moisture  that 
oozed  through  the  soil  above.  On  this  was  spread 
deep,  rich  loam,  and  therein  were  planted,  after  the 
manner  of  garden  and  park,  rare  shrubs  and  flowers 
that  delighted  with  color  and  perfume,  and  "  broad- 
leaved  "  trees  that  grew  into  stately  dimensions,  and 
clung  to  the  breast  of  the  nurse  as  trustfully  as  had 
it  been  that  of  old  Mother  Earth,  Through  a 
shaft  reaching  down  to  the  river,  water  was  drawn 
up  to  reservoirs  in  the  upper  terrace  by  some 
mechanism  that  Diodorus,  surely  by  an  anachro- 
nism, speaks  of  as  a  sort  of  Archimedes'  screw. 
Thence  came  the  supply  for  the  various  fountains 
and  rills  that  decorated  and  refreshed  the  gardens. 

This  truly  was  a  wonder  of  the  world ;  for  in 
the  vaulted  corridors  below,  the  politician  and  the 
money-changer  plied  their  crafts,  but  the  husband- 
man and  the  farmer  were  for  once  on  top. 

Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler. 

The  Garden  of  Damascus 

Wild  as  the  nighest  woodland  of  a  deserted 
home  in  England,  but  without  its  sweet  sadness,  is 
the  sumptuous  Garden  of  Damascus.  Forest  trees 
tall  and  stately  enough  if  you  could  see  their  lofty 
crests,  yet  lead  a  bustling  life  of  it  below,  with  their 
branches  struggling  against  strong  numbers  of 
bushes  and  wilful  shrubs.  The  shade  upon  the 
earth  is  black  as  night.  High,  high  above  your 
head,  and  on  every  side  all  down  to  the  ground,  the 
thicket  is  hemmed  in  and  choked  up  by  the  inter- 
lacing boughs  that  droop  with  the  weight  of  roses, 
and  load  the  slow  air  with  their  damask  breath. 
The  rose  trees  which  I  saw  were  all  of  the  kind  we 
call  damask — they  grow  to  an  immense  height  and 

size.  There  are  no  other  flowers.  Here  and  there 
are  patches  of  ground  made  clear  from  the  cover, 
and  these  are  either  carelessly  planted  with  some 
common  and  useful  vegetable,  or  else  are  left  free 
to  the  wayward  ways  of  nature,  and  bear  rank  weeds, 
moist-looking  and  cool  to  your  eyes,  and  freshening 
the  sense  with  their  earthy  and  bitter  fragrance. 

Alexander  William  Kinglake. 

"La  Petite  Trianon" 

It  contains  about  100  acres,  disposed  in  the  taste 
of  what  we  read  of  in  books  of  Chinese  gardening, 
whence  it  is  supposed  the  English  style  was  taken. 
*  *  *  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  anything  that  art 
can  introduce  in  a  garden  that  is  not  here ;  woods, 
rocks,  lawns,  lakes,  rivers,  islands,  cascades,  grottos, 
walks,  temples,  and  even  villages.  There  are  parts 
of  the  design  very  pretty,  and  well  executed.  The 
only  fault  is  too  much  crowding ;  which  has  led  to 
another,  that  of  cutting  the  lawn  by  too  many  gravel 
walks,  an  error  to  be  seen  in  almost  every  garden  I 
have  met  with  in  France.  But  the  glory  of  La 
Petite  Trianon  is  the  exotic  trees  and  shrubs.  The 
world  has  been  successfully  rifled  to  decorate  it. 
Here  are  curious  and  beautiful  ones  to  please  the 
eye  of  ignorance ;  and  to  exercise  the  memory  of 

ScienCC-  Arthur  Young. 

In  the  royal  ordering  of  gardens  there  ought  to 
be  gardens  for  all  the  months  of  the  year. 

Francis  Bacon  (Lord  Verulam). 

A  Royal  "Herbere" 

Now  there  was  made  fast  by  the  tower  wall 
A  garden  fair,  and  in  the  corners  set 

An  herbere  green,  with  wands  so  long  and  small 
Railed  all  about;  and  so  with  trees  close  set 

Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knit 

That  no  one  though  he  were  near  walking  by 
Might  there  within  scarce  any  one  espy. 
*         *         *         *         *         *          * 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leafage  green 
Beshades  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  'midst  of  ev'ry  herbere  might  be  seen 
The  sharp  and  green  sweet-scented  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair  with  branches  here  and  there, 
That,  as  it  seemed  to  any  one  without, 
The  branches  spread  the  herbere  all  about. 

•$£*$€•$»?)*$$*  •$•  Sk 

And  on  the  slender  green-leaved  branches  sat 
The  little  joyous  nightingales,  and  sang 

So  loud  and  dear,  the  carols  consecrat 

To  faithful  love.  King  James  7  of  Scotland, 

(  Written  while  imprisoned  in  Windsor  Castle.) 

The  herb-plot  was  one  of  the  most  important 
items  in  a  mediaeval  garden,  for  here  were  grown  not 
only  herbs  and  roots  [for  healing,  but  also  sweet- 
scented  mint  and  thyme  for  mingling  with  the  rushes 
strewn  on  the  floor.  Sometimes  the  rushes  them- 
selves were  fragrant,  and  such,  lemon-scented  when 
crushed,  may  even  to-day  be  found  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Oxford,  probably  growing  in  the  very  place 
which  at  one  time  supplied  many  a  college  hall  with 
its  carpet  of  fresh  green.  Alice  Kgmp 

A  mediaeval  garden  girdled  fair 

With  heart's-ease,  mignonette  and  marigold, 
Where  dreams  abide,  where  dwells  not  any  cold 

Nor  cloud  to  mar  the  hyacinthine  air; 

An  orchard  close  where  wander  debonair 
Maidens,  in  sapphire  kirtles,  aureoled 
With  almond  blossoms,  lilting  love-songs  old, 

Despite  the  presage  of  some  pale  despair; 

Knights  questing  down  dim  dales  of  Faery; 

Portent  and  prophecy  and  weird  mischance; 
Echoes  of  ancient  runes  that  faint  and  flee ; 

Flute-song  and  lute-song  without  dissonance; 
And  over  all,  like  twilight  o'er  the  sea, 

The  elusive  gleam  and  glamour  of  Romance! 

Clinton  Scollard. 

fltponagtic  <0attoett$ 

A  garden  was  an  important  and  even  essential 
annex  of  a  monastery,  not  only  because  of  the 
"herbularis"  or  physic  garden,  from  the  herbs  of 
which  the  monks  compounded  salves  and  potions 
for  the  wounded  knight  or  the  plundered  wayfarer 
who  might  take  shelter  within  its  protecting  walls, 
but  also  because  of  the  solace  which  the  shady  trees 
and  many  flowers  brought  to  the  sick,  for  a  monastery 
was  generally  a  hospital  as  well. 



A  chaplet  then  of  Herbs  I'll  make 

Than  which  though  yours  be  braver, 
Yet  this  of  mine  I'll  undertake 

Shall  not  be  short  of  savour : 
With  Basil  then  I  will  begin, 

Whose  scent  is  wondrous  pleasing; 
This  Eglantine  I'll  next  put  in, 

The  sense  with  sweetness  seizing; 
Then  in  my  Lavender  I  lay, 

Muscado  put  among  it, 
With  here  and  there  a  leaf  of  Bay, 

Which  still  shall  run  along  it. 

Germander,  Marjoram  and  Thyme, 
Which  used  are  for  strewing ; 

With  Hyssop  as  an  herb  most  prime 
Here  in  my  wreath  bestowing; 

Then  Balm  and  Mint  help  to  make  up 

My  chaplet,  and  for  trial 
Costmary  that  so  likes  the  Cup, 

And  next  it  Pennyroyal. 
Then  Burnet  shall  bear  up  with  this, 

Whose  leaf  I  greatly  fancy; 
Some  Camomile  doth  not  amiss 

With  Savory  and  some  Tansy. 
Then  here  and  there  I'll  put  a  sprig 

Of  Rosemary  into  it, 
Thus  not  too  Little  nor  too  Big, 

'Tis  done  if  I  can  do  it. 

Michael  Drayton. 

"  There  is  Balm  for  sympathy,  Bay  for  glory, 
Foxglove  for  sincerity,  Basil  for  hatred." 

Sage,  too,  sovereign  Sage,  best  of  all  —  excellent 
for  longevity  —  of  which  to-day's  stock  seems  running 
low,  for  — 

Why  should  man  die  ?  so  doth  the  sentence  say, 
When  sage  grows  in  his  garden  day  by  day? 

Amos  Branson  Alcott. 

Closed  on  three  sides  by  crumbling  walls  of  brick, 
All  spotted  by  slow-creeping  lichen  stains, 
And  nearly  hid  by  ivy,  matted  thick, 
And  dim  with  clinging  mists  of  years  of  rains, 
The  Garden  lies. 

Inside  the  walls,  the  tall  ailanthus'  shade 

Is  tangled  in  the  meshes  of  the  grass,1 
Or  flecks  the  path,  where  mossy  flags  were  laid 

For  childish  feet,  long  since  grown  old  to  pass ; 
Between  the  stones  the  scarlet  pimpernel 

Finds  room  to  spread  its  thread-like  roots  and  grow; 
And  all  self-sown,  the  portulaca's  bell 

Lights  up  the  ground  with  tender  rosy  glow ; 

The  walks  are  hedged  with  dusky  green  of  box, 

^That  once  enclosed  long  borders,  trim  and  neat; 
Within  them  stood  great  clumps  of  snowy  phlox, 

That  shown  at  dusk,  and  grew  more  deeply  sweet. 
And  now  the  phlox  wild  morning-glories  seek, 

Whose  silky  blossoms  rove  the  Garden  through, 
And  press  pure  faces  'gainst  the  thistle's  cheek, 

Or  star-like  gleam  amid  the  grass  and  dew — 
A  thousand  pushing  weeds  the  borders  hold, 

And  standing  with  them  wild  and  rank  as  they, 
Are  tender  blossoms,  now  grown  over-bold, 

And  careless  of  the  Garden's  slow  decay. 
Oh,  far  away,  in  some  serener  air, 

The  eyes  that  loved  them  see  a  heavenly  dawn: 
How  can  they  bloom  without  her  tender  care? 

Why  should  they  live,  when  her  sweet  life  is 

8°ne  ?  Margaret  Deland. 

And  where  the  Marjoram  once,  and  Sage  and  Rue, 
And  Balm,  and  Mint,  with  curl'd-leaf  Parsley  grew, 
And  double  Marigolds,  and  silver  Thyme, 
And  Pumpkins  'neath  the  window  climb. 
And  where  I  often,  when  a  child,  for  hours 
Tried  through  the  pales  to  get  the  tempting  flowers, 
As  Lady's-laces,  Everlasting  Peas, 
True-love-lies-bleeding,  with  the  Hearts-at-ease 
And  Goldenrods,  and  Tansy  running  high, 
That  o'er  the  pale  tops  smiled  on  passers-by, 
Flowers  in  my  time  which  every  one  would  praise, 
Though  thrown  like  weeds  from  gardens  nowadays. 

John  Clare. 

An  Old-Fashioned  Garden 

An  old-fashioned  garden?  Yes,  my  dear, 
No  doubt  it  is.    I  was  thinking  here 
Only  to-day,  as  I  sat  in  the  sun, 
How  fair  was  the  scene  I  looked  upon  ; 

Yet  wondered  still,  with  a  vague  surprise, 
How  it  might  look  to  other  eyes. 

So  quiet  it  is,  so  cool  and  still, 
In  the  green  retreat  of  the  shady  hill! 
And  you  scarce  can  tell  as  you  look  within, 
Where  the  garden  ends,  and  the  woods  begin. 
But  here,  where  we  stand,  what  a  blaze  of  light, 
What  a  wealth  of  color,  makes  glad  the  sight ! 

Red  roses  burn  in  the  morning  glow; 
White  roses  proffer  their  cups  of  snow; 
In  scarlet  and  crimson  and  cloth-of-gold 
The  zinnias  flaunt,  and  the  marigold ; 
And  stately  and  tall  the  lilies  stand, 
Like  vestal  virgins,  on  either  hand. 

Here  gay  sweet  peas,  like  butterflies, 
Flutter  and  dance  under  summer  skies ; 
Blue  violets  here  in  the  shade  are  set, 
With  a  border  of  fragrant  mignonette ; 
And  here  are  pansies  and  columbine, 
And  the  burning  stars  of  the  cypress  vine. 
Stately  hollyhocks,  row  on  row, 
Golden  sunflowers  all  aglow, 
Scarlet  poppies  and  larkspurs  blue, 
Asters  of  every  shade  and  hue ; 
And  over  the  wall  like  a  trail  of  fire 
The  red  nasturtium  climbs  higher  and  higher. 

Julia  C.  R.   Dorr. 

In  former  times  the  use  of  Box  was  not  known, 
and  the  manner  of  using  it,  if  we  believe  the  Table,  was 
introduc'd  by  the  Goddess  FLORA,  who,  believing  it 
to  be  an  ornament  prepared  for  Gardens,  order'd  it 
to  be  made  use  of  accordingly.  Georgg 

And  did  you  not  feel,  in  looking  at  those  flowers, 
how  each  made  you  love  it  as  a  friend — the  Pinks, 
and  Sweet  Williams,  the  Everlasting  Peas,  Valerian, 
Day  Lily,  Jacob's  Ladder,  and  a  host  of  others  ? 

Forbes  Watson. 

The  flower-de-luce  forth  spread  his  heavenly  hue, 
Flower  Damasks,  and  Columbine  white  and  blue, 
Seyr  downye  small  on  Dent-de-lion  sprang, 
The  young  green  blooming  strawberry  leaves  amang. 

Gawen  Douglas. 

The  Wall-Flower 

The  wall-flower,  the  wall-flower, 

How  beautiful  it  blooms! 
It  gleams  above  the  ruined  tower, 

Like  sunlight  over  tombs ; 
It  sheds  a  halo  of  repose 

Around  the  wrecks  of  time. 
To  beauty  give  the  flaunting  rose, 

The  wall-flower  is   sublime. 

David  Macbeth  Moir. 

Sweet  Peas 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight: 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 

John  Keats. 


I  like  not  lady-slippers, 
Nor  yet  the  sweet  pea  blossom, 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 
Red,  or  white  as  snow ; 

I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow! 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine, 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 

They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful, — 

They  are  Circassian  women, 

The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

The  Morning-Glory 

Wondrous  interlacement ! 

Holding  fast  to  threads  by  green  and  silky  rings, 
With  the  dawn  it  spreads  its  white  and  purple  wings ; 
Generous  in  its  bloom,  and  sheltering  while  it  climbs, 
Sturdy  morning-glory. 

Creeping  through  the  casement, 
Slanting  to  the  floor  in  dusty,  shining  beams, 
Dancing  on  the  door  in  quick,  fantastic  gleams, 
Comes  the  new  day's  light,  and  pours  in  tearless 

Golden  morning-glory. 

The  Pink 

And  dearer  I,  the  Pink,  must  be, 
And  me  thou  sure  dost  choose, 

Or  else  the  gard'ner  ne'er  for  me 
Such  watchful  care  would  use ; 

A  crowd  of  leaves  enriching  bloom  ! 

And  mine  through  life  the  sweet  perfume, 
And  all  the  thousand  hues. 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe. 

As  for  mangolds,  poppies,  hollyhocks  and  val- 
orous sunflowers,  we  shall  never  have  a  garden 
without  them,  both  for  thine  own  sake  and  for  the 
sake  of  old-fashioned  folk,  who  used  to  love  them. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

Ah,  Sunflower,  weary  of  time 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun ; 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime, 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done; 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire, 
And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  Sunflower  wishes  to  go. 

William  Blake. 

*  *  *  The  great  upstanding  hollyhocks, 
Those  heavenward  ladders  by  which  in  a  row 
Roses  footing  for  angels  go, 
The  larger,  the  farther  down  they  grow. 

Laurence  Housman. 

In  all  times  the  English  have  been  fond  of 
gardens.  Bacon  thought  it  not  beneath  his  dignity 
to  order  the  arrangement  of  a  garden.  Long  before 
Bacon,  a  writer  of  the  twelfth  century  describes  a 
garden  as  it  should  be:  "It  should  be  adorned  on 
this  side  with  roses,  lilies  and  the  marigold;  on  that 
side  with  parsley,  cost,  fennel,  southernwood,  cori- 
ander, sage,  savory,  hyssop,  mint,  vine,  deltany, 
pellitory,  lettuce,  cresses,  and  the  peony!  Let  there 
be  beds  enriched  with  onions,  leek,  garlic,  melons, 
scallions.  The  garden  is  also  enriched  by  the 
cucumber,  the  soporiferous  poppy,  and  the  daffodil, 

and  the  acanthus.  Nor  let  pot-herbs  be  wanting, 
as  beet-root,  sorrel  and  mallow.  It  is  useful  also  to 
the  gardener  to  have  anise,  mustard  and  wormwood." 

Walter  Besant. 

An  Elizabethan  Garden 

And  all  without  were  walkes  and  alleys  dight 
With  divers  trees  enrang'd  in  even  rankes ; 
And  here  and  there  were  pleasant  arbors  pight 
And  shadie  seats,  and  sundry  flowering  bankes 
To  sit  and  rest  the  walkers'  wearie  shankes. 

Edmund  Spenser. 

Pope's  Satire  on  English  Gardening 

How  contrary  to  this  simplicity  (of  Homer)  is 
the  modern  practice  of  gardening !  We  seem  to  make 
it  our  study  to  recede  from  nature,  not  only  in  the 
various  tonsure  of  greens  into  the  most  regular  and 
formal  shape,  but  even  in  monstrous  attempts  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  art  itself:  we  run  into  sculpture, 
and  are  yet  better  pleased  to  have  our  trees  in  the 
most  aukward  figures  of  men  and  animals,  than  in 
the  most  regular  of  their  own.  *  *  * 

For  the  benefit  of  all  my  loving  countrymen  of 
this  curious  taste,  I  shall  here  publish  a  catalogue  of 
greens  to  be  disposed  of  by  an  eminent  town- 
gardener,  who  has  lately  applied  to  me  upon  this 
head.  He  represents,  that  for  the  advancement  of 
a  politer  sort  of  ornament  in  the  villas  and  gardens 
adjacent  to  this  great  city,  and  in  order  to  distinguish 
those  places  from  the  mere  barbarous  countries  of 
gross  nature,  the  world  stands  much  in  need  of  a 
virtuoso  gardener,  who  has  a  turn  to  sculpture,  and 
is  thereby  capable  of  improving  upon  the  ancients 
in  the  imagery  of  evergreens. 

I  proceed  to  this  catalogue : — 

Adam  and  Eve  in  yew;  Adam  a  little  shattered 
by  the  fall  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  in  the  great 
storm;  Eve  and  the  serpent  very  flourishing. 

Noah's  Ark,  in  holly,  the  ribs  a  little  damaged 
for  want  of  water. 

The  tower  of  Babel  not  yet  finished. 

St.  George  in  Box;  his  arm  scarce  long  enough, 
but  will  be  in  a  condition  to  stick  the  dragon  by 
next  April. 

A  green  dragon  of  the  same,  with  a  tail  of 
ground-ivy  for  the  present. 

N.  B.  Those  two  are  not  to  be  sold  separately. 

Edward  the  Black  Prince  in  Cypress.  *  *  * 

A  Queen  Elizabeth  inPhillyrea;  a  little  inclined 
to  the  Green  sickness,  but  of  old  growth.  *  *  * 

An  old  maid  of  honour  in  wormwood. 

A  topping  Ben  Jonson  in  Laurel. 

Divers  eminent  modern  poets  in  bays,  somewhat 
blighted,  to  be  disposed  of  a  pennyworth. 

of  tlje  Orient 

Chinese  Gardens 

The  art  of  laying  out  gardens  consists  in  an 
endeavor  to  combine  cheerfulness  of  aspect,  luxuri- 
ance of  growth,  shade,  solitude  and  repose,  in  such 
a  manner  that  the  senses  may  be  deluded  by  an 
imitation  of  rural  nature.  Diversity,  which  is  the 
main  advantage  of  free  landscape,  must,  therefore, 
be  sought  in  a  judicious  choice  of  soil,  an  alternation 
of  chains  of  hills  and  valleys,  gorges,  brooks,  and 
lakes  covered  with  aquatic  plants.  Symmetry  is 
wearying,  and  ennui  and  disgust  will  soon  be  excited 
in  a  garden  where  every  part  betrays  constraint 

and  art'  Lien-Tschen. 

(Quoted  by  A.  von  Humboldt^) 

"The  Garden  of  Gardens" 

The  Chinese  trace  back  the  origin  of  their  gardens 
to  the  remotest  antiquity  (2600  B.  C.) 

The  Chinese  Emperor's  garden  at  Pekin,  begun 
in  1723  and  pillaged  in  1  860,  was  called  the  "Garden 
of  Gardens."  The  letters  of  a  French  Jesuit  Mis- 
sionary, Pere  Attiret,  descriptive  of  it,  and  translated 
by  Joseph  Spence  in  1752,  kindled  a  flame  of 
enthusiasm  throughout  Europe. 

Attiret  describes  the  artificial  hills  20  to  60  feet 
high  with  little  valleys  interspersed,  rivers  and  rivulets 
running  together  through  these  to  form  lakes,  with 
pleasure-houses  to  the  number  of  200  on  their 
banks;  the  rough  irregular  rockwork  —  twisting  and 
winding  paths,  and  bridges  which  also  serpentised. 
One  of  the  lakes  was  nearly  five  miles  round, 
studded  with  islands,  and  rocks,  and  with  infinitely 
varied  banks.  Albgrt  Forbef  Sieveking. 

In  my  opinion,  the  chrysanthemum  is  the  flower 
of  retirement  and  culture;  the  peony,  the  flower  of 
rank  and  wealth;  the  water-lily,  the  Lady  Virtue 
Sans  Pareilk. 


(A  Chine  it  writer,  1017-1073.) 

Japanese  Gardens 

The  Japanese  derived  their  landscape-garden 
originally  from  the  Chinese,  but  besides  imitating 
nature  they  endeavor  to  impart  to  their  designs  a 
symbolical  character,  expressing  an  abstract  idea  or 
sentiment  such  as  "Retirement,"  "Meditation"  or 
"Fidelity."  *  *  *  As  in  the  Chinese  gardens,  hills 
are  a  fundamental  feature,  but  the  Chinese  gardens 
abound  more  in  small  kiosks  and  ballustraded  gal- 
leries, and  rockeries  honeycombed  with  caves  and 
grottos,  and  the  Chinese  also  employ  more  flowering 
plants  than  the  Japanese.  Selected 

Persian  Gardens 

After  what  I  have  said  of  the  number  and  beauty 
of  the  flowers  in  Persia,  one  might  easily  imagine 
that  the  most  beautiful  gardens  in  the  world  are  to 
be  found  there;  but  this  is  not  at  all  the  case. 
*  *  *  The  Gardens  of  the  Persians  consist  com- 
monly of  a  grand  alley  or  straight  avenue  in  the 
centre,  planted  with  plane  *  *  *  which  divides  the 
garden  into  two  parts.  There  is  a  basin  of  water  in 
the  middle,  proportionate  to  the  garden,  and  two 
other  lesser  ones  on  the  two  sides.  The  space 
between  them  is  sown  with  a  mixture  of  flowers  in 
natural  confusion,  and  planted  with  fruit  trees  and 
roses  ;  and  this  is  the  whole  of  the  plan  and  execution. 
They  know  nothing  of  parterres  and  cabinets  of 
verdure,  labyrinths,  terraces  and  such  other  orna- 
ments of  our  gardens.  The  reason  of  which  is,  that 
the  Persians  do  not  walk  in  their  gardens,  as  we  do  ; 
but  content  themselves  with  having  the  view  of  them, 
and  breathing  the  fresh  air.  Sir  John 

Exclusiveness  in  a  garden  is  a  mistake  as  great 
as  it  is  in  society.  Alfred  Austin. 

The  Dutch  style  of  laying  out  gardens,rintroduced 
into  England  by  William  III  and  Mary,  is  not  unlike 
the  French,  but  everything  is  on  a  smaller,  almost 
too  minute  a  scale;  and  much  care  is  expended  upon 
isolated  details  and  ornaments  (often  trivial),  such 
as  glass  balls,  coloured  sands  and  earths,  flower-pots 
innumerable,  and  painted  perspectives;  and  the 
garden  is  usually  intersected  with  canals  degenerating 
into  ditches.  Grassy  slopes,  green  terraces  and 
straight  canals  are  more  common  in  Holland  than 

in  any  other  country  of  the  Continent,  and  these 
verdant  slopes  and  mounds  may  be  said  to  form, 
with  their  oblong  canals,  the  characteristics  of  the 
Dutch  style.  ~ ,  nj  ,.  r  , 

t  John  Claudius  London. 

I  asked  an  old  gardener  whether  he  could  tell 
me  anything  about  Dutch  Gardens,  and  he  made 
answer,  "They  be  bits  o'  beds  with  edgings  o'  box, 
and  gravel  walks,  and  four  sloping  banks  forming  a 
square  outside,  and  they  be  pratty  toys  for  children, 
and  very  snug  for  varmint. "  s  Reynolds 

Love  has  made  many  lovers  foolish;  but  it  took 
flower-love  to  drive  a  nation  crazy,  and  of  all  nations 
it  was  the  sober-minded  Dutchmen !  Once  in  Holland 
they  grew  ecstatic  over  tulips;  so  crazily  fond  of 
tulips  that  two  thousand  dollars  was  cheap  for  a 
single  bulb.  All  ranks  high  and  low  were  carried 
off  their  understandings  into  tulip-speculations ;  the 
towns  had  their  tulip-exchange;  the  public  notary 
became  the  tulip-notary,  and  when  the  bubble 
burst,  fortunes  vanished ;  the  panic  was  national,  and 
the  country  did  not  get  over  the  shock  to  its 
commerce  for  several  years.  mw*m  C.  Gannett. 

Gold  and  crimson  tulips 

Lift  your  bright  heads  up, 
Catch  the  shining  dewdrops 

In  your  dainty  cups. 
If  the  birdies  see  you 

When  they're  flying  by, 
They  will  think  a  sunset 

Dropped  from  out  the  sky. 

Alice  C.  D.  Riley. 

Gardens  are  almost  as  beautiful  in  some  parts  of 
Germany  as  in  England;  the  luxury  of  gardens 
always  implies  a  love  of  the  Country.  In  England 
simple  mansions  are  often  built  in  the  middle  of  the 
most  magnificent  parks ;  the  proprietor  neglects  his 
dwelling  to  attend  to  the  ornament  of  nature.  This 
magnificence  and  simplicity  united  do  not,  it  is  true, 
exist  in  the  same  degree  in  Germany ;  yet,  in  spite  of 
the  want  of  wealth,  and  the  pride  of  feudal  dignity, 
there  is  everywhere  to  be  remarked  a  certain  love  of 
the  beautiful,  which  sooner  or  later  must  be  followed 
by  taste  and  elegance,  of  which  it  is  the  only  real 
source.  Often  in  the  midst  of  the  superb  gardens 
of  the  German  princes  are  placed  /Eolian  harps 
close  by  grottos,  encircled  with  flowers,  that  the 
wind  may  waft  the  sound  and  the  perfume  together. 

Madame  De  Stael. 

Germany  has  been  in  the  main  a  follower  rather 
than  a  leader  in  garden  design;  but  she  has  played 
an  important  part  in  spreading  knowledge  upon  the 
theory,  and  in  producing  tasteful  and  skilful  de- 
signers in  the  modern  "national"  style.  *  *  *  Ham- 
burg has  always  been  a  garden-city,  and  maintained 
its  reputation  in  this  respect  by  the  great  Garten- 
Ausstellung  held  there  in  1897.  Selected 


The  old  Italian  garden  was  meant  to  be  lived 
in — a  use  to  which,  at  least  in  America,  the  modern 
garden  is  seldom  put. 

*  *  *  The  cult  of  the  Italian  garden  has  spread 
from  England  to  America,  and  there  is  a  general  feel- 
ing that  by  placing  a  marble  bench  here  and  a  sun-dial 
there,  Italian  "effects"  may  be  achieved.  The  results 

produced,  even  where  much  money  and  thought  have 
been  expended,  are  not  altogether  satisfactory;  and 
some  critics  have  thence  inferred  that  the  Italian 
garden  is,  so  to  speak,  untranslatable,  that  it  cannot 
be  adequately  rendered  in  another  landscape  and 
another  age. 

*  *  *  It  is,  of  course,  an  exaggeration  to  say  that 
there  are  no  flowers  in  Italian  gardens;  but,  to  enjoy 
and  appreciate  the  Italian  garden-craft,  one  must 
understand  at  the  outset  that  it  is  almost  independ- 
ent of  floriculture. 

The  Italian  garden  does  not  exist  for  its  flowers; 
such  flowers  as  it  contains  exist  for  it. 

Edith  Wharton. 

An  Englishwoman's  Italian  Garden 

I  am  really  as  fond  of  my  garden  as  a  young 
author  of  his  first  play,  when  it  has  been  well  received 
by  the  town.  *  *  *  I  have  made  two  little  terasses, 
raised  twelve  steps  each,  at  the  end  of  my  great  walk ; 
they  are  just  finished,  and  a  great  addition  to  the  beauty 
of  my  garden.  *  *  *  I  have  mixed  in  my  espaliers 
as  many  rose  and  jessamin  trees  as  I  can  cram  in; 
and  in  the  squares  designed  for  the  use  of  the  kitchen, 
have  avoided  putting  anything  disagreeable  either  to 
sight  or  smell,  having  another  garden  below  for 
cabbage,  onions,  garlic.  All  the  walks  are  garnished 
with  beds  of  flowers,  besides  the  parterres,  which  are 
for  a  more  distinguished  sort.  I  have  neither  brick 
nor  stone  walls:  all  my  fence  is  a  high  hedge, 
mingled  with  trees;  but  fruit  is  so  plenty  in  this 
country,  nobody  thinks  it  worth  stealing.  Gardening 
is  certainly  the  next  amusement  to  reading ;  and  as 
my  sight  will  now  permit  me  little  of  that,  I  am  glad 
to  form  a  taste  that  can  give  me  so  much  employ- 
ment and  be  the  plaything  of  my  age,  now  my  pen 
and  needle  are  almost  useless  to  me. 

Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu. 

We  wonder  in  England,  when  we  hear  it  related 
by  travellers,  that  peaches  in  Italy  are  left  under  the 
trees  for  swine ;  but,  when  we  ourselves  come  into 
the  country,  our  wonder  is  rather  that  the  swine  do 
not  leave  them  for  animals  less  nice. 

Walter  Savage  Lander. 

The  earliest  Spanish  gardens  were  the  creation 
of  the  Moors,  and  bear  the  Arabian  stamp  of  their 
origin,  half  Asiatic,  half  African.  Perhaps  their 
design  has  the  strongest  affinity  to  the  gardens  of 
Persia,  with  their  shallow  water  running  down  the 
centre  over  coloured  tiles,  and  their  innumerable 
fountains,  for  water  in  one  form  or  another  is  the 
predominant  feature.  Selected 

And  in  Spain,  like  a  scene  in  the  Arabian  Nights, 
comes  back  to  us  the  old  Moorish  garden  of  Granada, 
with  marble-lined  canal  and  lofty  arcades  of  trimmed 
yew,  tipped  with  crescents,  pyramids  and  crowns. 

<<E.  V.  B." 

(Hon.  Mrs.  Boyle.) 

The  garden  beneath  my  window,  before  wrapped 
in  gloom,  was  gently  lighted  up,  the  orange  and 
citron  trees  were  tipped  with  silver;  the  fountain 
sparkled  in  the  moonbeams,  and  even  the  blush  of 
the  rose  was  faintly  visible.  I  now  felt  the  poetic 
merit  of  the  Arabic  description  on  the  walls 
(The  Alhambra) : 

"How  beautiful  is  this  garden,  where  the  flowers 
of  the  earth  vie  with  the  stars  of  heaven !  What  can 
compare  with  the  vase  of  yon  alabaster  fountain  filled 
with  crystal  water?  Nothing  but  the  moon  in  her 
fulness,  shining  in  the  midst  of  an  unclouded  sky !" 

Washington  living. 

Rational  tf  lot»er$ 

Monarchs  and  nations  have  often  had  their  sym- 
bolic flowers.  The  Thistle  is  the  emblem  of  Scot- 
land, and  the  Shamrock  of  Ireland.  The  Fleur  de 
Lis  is  the  badge  of  the  royal  house  of  France,  and 
the  Amaranth  that  of  Sweden.  The  Rose  is  on 
the  royal  coat  of  arms  of  England. 

The  rose  may  bloom  for  England, 

The  lily  for  France  unfold; 
Ireland  may  honor  the  shamrock, 

Scotland  her  thistle  bold, 
But  the  shield  of  the  Great  Republic, 

The  glory  of  the  West, 
Shall  bear  a  stalk  of  the  tasseled  corn, 

Of  all  our  wealth  the  best. 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 

They  have  asked  me  to  vote  for  a  national  flower, — 

Now,  which  will  it  be,  I  wonder ; 
To  settle  the  question  is  out  of  my  power ; 

But  I'd  rather  not  make  a  blunder. 

Instead  of  one  flower,  I  will  vote  for  three : 
The  Mayflowers  know  that  I  mean  them; 

And  the  Goldenrod  surely  my  choice  will  be, — 
With  the  Sweetbrier-Rose  between  them. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

d&at&en  of 

Before  me  was  the  garden  where  I  had  played 
all  my  childhood,  until  playing  had  turned  into 
dreaming.  It  was  unkempt,  but  it  seemed  to  have 
more  dignity  and  meaning  than  the  garden  of  my 
memory;  the  unpruned  rose-bushes  reached  out 

long  bare  arms,  or  formed  briery  tangles  according 
to  their  kind ;  the  shrubs  were  massive  and  well- 
grown,  and  had  the  soothing  influence  of  perma- 
nence. In  a  sheltered  corner  a  cluster  of  chrysanthe- 
mums unharmed  by  frost  showed  their  silvery  disks, 
and  a  single  crumpled  pansy  looked  up  from  the 
path  where  it  had  found  footing. 

"The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife" 

(Mabel  Osgood  Wright.} 

Baby,  what  do  the  blossoms  say, 

Down  in  the  garden  walk  ? 
They  nod  and  bend  in  the  twilight  gray ; 

Say  !  can  you  hear  them  talk  ? 
They  say,  "  Oh,  darling  baby  bright, 
We're  going  to  sleep!  good  night,  good  night ! 
The  gentle  breezes  have  come  to  sing 
How  God  takes  care  of  everything." 

Sarah  E.  Hen  sham. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs,  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet. 

Thomas  Hood. 

When  to  the  garden  of  untroubled  thought 
I  came  of  late,  and  saw  the  open  door 
And  wished  again  to  enter  and  explore 

The  sweet,  wild  ways  with  stainless  bloom  inwrought, 

And  bowers  of  innocence  with  beauty  fraught, 
It  seemed  some  purer  voice  must  speak  before 
I  dared  to  tread  the  garden,  loved  of  yore, 

That  Eden  lost  unknown,  and  found  unsought. 

Then  just  within  the  gate  I  saw  a  child — 

A  strange  child,  yet  to  my  heart  most  dear — 

He  held  his  hands  to  me,  and  softly  smiled 

With  eyes  that  knew  no  shade  of  sin  or  fear ; 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  and  play  awhile  with  me  ; 

I  am  the  little  child  you  used  to  be." 

Henry  van  Dyke. 

A  Girl's  Garden 

I  see  the  garden  thicket's  shade 
Where  all  the  summer  long  we  played; 
And  gardens  set  and  houses  made, 
Our  early  work  and  late. 

Mary  How  it  t. 

Let  us  peer  into  these  garden  thickets  at  these 
happy  little  girls,  fantastic  in  their  garden  dress. 
Their  hair  is  hung  thick  with  Dandelion  curls,  made 
from  pale  green  opal-tinted  stems  that  have  grown 
long  under  the  shrubbery  and  Box  borders.  Around 
their  necks  are  childish  wampum,  strings  of  Dande- 
lion beads  or  Daisy  chains.  More  delicate  wreaths 
for  the  neck  or  hair  were  made  from  the  blossoms 
of  the  Four-o'clock  or  the  petals  of  Phlox  or  Lilacs, 
threaded  with  pretty  alternation  of  color.  Fuchsias 
were  hung  at  the  ears  for  eardrops,  green  leaves  were 
pinned  with  leaf  stems  into  little  caps  and  bonnets 
and  aprons,  Foxgloves  made  dainty  children's  gloves. 
Truly  the  garden-bred  child  went  in  gay  attire. 

Alice  Morse  Earle. 

A  Boy's  Garden 

Like  other  boys  in  the  country,  I  had  my  patch 
of  ground,  to  which,  in  the  springtime,  I  entrusted 
the  seeds  furnished  me,  with  a  confident  trust  in 
their  resurrection  and  glorification  in  the  better  world 
of  summer. 

But  I  soon  found  that  my  lines  had  fallen  in  a 
place  where  a  vegetable  growth  had  to  run  the 
gauntlet  of  as  many  foes  and  trials  as  a  Christian 
pilgrim.  Flowers  would  not  blow ;  daffodils  perished 
like  criminals  in  their  condemned  cups,  without 
their  petals  ever  seeing  daylight;  roses  were  disfigured 
with  monstrous  protrusions  through  their  very  cen- 
tres,—  something  that  looked  like  a  second  bud 
pushing  through  the  middle  of  the  corolla ;  lettuces 
and  cabbages  would  not  head;  radishes  knotted 
themselves  until  they  looked  like  centenarian's  fin- 
gers ;  and  on  every  stem,  on  every  leaf,  and  both 
sides  of  it,  and  at  the  root  of  everything  that  grew, 
was  a  professional  specialist  in  the  shape  of  a  gnat, 
caterpillar,  aphis,  or  other  expert,  whose  business  it 
was  to  devour  that  particular  part,  and  help  murder 
the  whole  attempt  at  vegetation. 

Olive r  Wendell  Holmes. 

The  three  first  men  in  the  world  were  a  Gardiner, 
a  Ploughman,  and  a  Grazier;  and  if  any  man  object 
that  the  second  of  these  was  a  murtherer,  I  desire 
that  he  would  consider  that  as  soon  as  he  was  so,  he 
quitted  our  profession,  and  turned  builder. 

Abraham  Coivlej. 

I  can  now  understand  in  what  sense  they  speak 
of  Father  Adam.  I  recognise  the  paternity,  while  I 
watch  my  tulips.  I  almost  feel  with  him,  too ;  for 
the  first  day  I  turned  a  drunken  gardener  (as  he  let 
in  the  serpent)  into  my  Eden,  and  he  laid  about  him, 
lopping  off  some  choice  boughs,  etc.,  which  hung 
over  from  a  neighbour's  garden,  and  in  his  blind  zeal 
laid  waste  a  shade,  which  had  sheltered  their  window 
from  the  gaze  of  passers-by.  The  old  gentlewoman 

*  *  could  scarcely  be  reconciled  by  all  my  fine  words. 
There  was  no  buttering  her  parsnips.  She  talked 
of  the  law.  What  a  lapse  to  commit  on  the  first 
day  of  my  happy  "  garden  state  " !  charks  ^ 

Neither  a  garden  nor  a  gardener  can  be  made  in 
one  year,  nor  in  one  generation,  even. 

"The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife." 

(Mabel  Osgood  Wright.} 

To  own  a  bit  of  ground,  to  scratch  it  with  a  hoe, 
to  plant  seeds  and  watch  their  renewal  of  life, — this 
is  the  commonest  delight  of  the  race,  the  most  satis- 
factory thing  one  can  do.  charlgs 

I  think  there  are  as  many  kinds  of  gardeners  as 
of  poetry ;  your  makers  of  parterres  and  flower- 
gardens  are  epigrammatists  and  sonneteers  in  this  art ; 
contrivers  of  bowers  and  grottos,  treillages  and  cas- 

cades, are  romance  writers. 

Joseph  Addison. 

Dr.  Burgh  in  his  notes  on  the  English  Garden 
calls  "  Bacon,  the  prophet ;  Milton,  the  herald;  and 
Addison,  Pope  and  Kent,  the  champions "  of  this 
true  taste  in  gardening,  because  they  absolutely 
brought  it  into  execution.  D  ~  n  „ 

&  Rev .  james  Dallaway. 

I  often  think,  when  working  over  my  plants,  of 
what  Linnaeus  once  said  of  the  unfolding  of  a  blos- 
som : — "I  saw  God  in  His  glory  passing  near  me, 
and  bowed  my  head  in  worship."  jghn 

location  for  a 

With  orchard,  and  with  g^rdeyne,  or  with  mede 
Se  that  thyne  hous  with  hem  be  umviroune. 
The  side  in  longe  upon  the  South  thou  sprede, 
The  cornel  ryse  upon  the  wynter  sonne, 
And  gire  it  from  the  cold  West  yf  thou  conne. 

A.  D.  Palladius. 
(Middle  English  translation,  4th  or  5th  Century.) 

A  south  slope  is  the  ideal  situation  for  a  garden, 
since  it  insures  good  drainage  and  the  greatest 
amount  of  sunlight.  The  garden  should  also  be  open 
to  the  east  and  west,  if  possible;  that  it  may  have 
the  benefit  of  the  morning  and  evening  sun.  Shelter 
on  the  north  is  desirable,  as  north  winds  are  disas- 
trous to  Roses  and  tender  perennials.  Partial  shelter 
on  the  west  should  be  given  in  localities  where  the 
prevailing  winds  of  winter  are  from  that  quarter. 

*  *  *  The  garden  should  always  be  at  the  rear 
or  side  of  the  dwelling,  never  in  front  or  along  the 
street.  The  reasons  for  this  are  obvious.  The  gar- 
den proper  is  intended  to  furnish  cut  flowers,  to  pro- 
vide a  place  of  experiment  with  new  varieties,  and 
to  grow  hardy  perennials  which  have  certain  seasons 
of  bloom  and  cannot  be  depended  upon  at  all  times 
for  ornamental  effect.  One  should  feel  free  to  work 
there  unobserved  of  the  passer-by,  and  this  is  im- 
possible in  a  garden  close  to  the  street. 

Ida  D.  Bennett. 

My  garden  should  lie  to  the  south  of  the  house, 
the  ground  gradually  sloping  for  some  short  way 
till  it  fall  abruptly  into  the  dark  and  tangled  shrub- 
beries that  all  but  hide  the  winding  brook  below. 
A  broad  terrace,  half  as  wide,  at  least,  as  the  house 
is  high,  should  run  along  the  whole  southern  length 

of  the  building,  extending  to  the  western  side  also, 
whence,  over  the  distant  country,  I  may  catch  the 
last  red  light  of  the  setting  sun.  *  *  *  The  upper 
terrace  should  be  strictly  architectural,  and  no  plants 
are  to  be  harboured  there,  save  such  as  twine  among 
the  balustrades,  or  fix  themselves  in  the  mouldering 
crevices  of  the  stone.  I  can  endure  no  plants  in 
pots, — a  plant  in  a  pot  is  like  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

Thomas  James. 

dSartien  in 

Spring  Has  Come 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns, 
The  long  narcissus  blades  appear, 

The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower  ! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies  ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near  ; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud  little  roses,  Spring  is  here." 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Easter  in  "Elizabeth's  German  Garden 

Oh,  I  could  dance  and  sing  for  joy  that  the  Spring 
is  here !  What  a  resurrection  of  beauty  there  is  in 
my  garden,  and  of  brightest  hope  in  my  heart ! 
The  whole  of  this  radiant  Easter  day  I  have 
spent  out  of  doors,  sitting  at  first  among  the  wind- 
flowers  and  celandines,  and  then,  later,  walking  with 
the  babies  to  the  Hirschwald,  to  see  what  the  spring 
had  been  doing  there ;  and  the  afternoon  was  so  hot 
that  we  lay  a  long  time  on  the  turf,  blinking  up 
through  the  leafless  branches  of  the  silver  birches  at 
the  soft,  fat  little  white  clouds  floating  motionless  in 
the  blue.  We  had  tea  on  the  grass  in  the  sun,  and 
when  it  began  to  grow  late,  and  the  babies  were  in 
bed,  and  all  the  little  windflowers  folded  up  for  the 
night,  I  still  wandered  in  the  green  paths,  my  heart 
full  of  happiest  gratitude. 

"  There  is  a  princess  or  a  duchess  or  somebody 
*  *  *  and  she  lives  in  Germany  and  is  named 
Elizabeth,  and  she's  written  a  book  about  her  garden, 
and  it  made  such  things  the  rage." 

"The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife." 

(Mabel  Qsgood  Wright.) 

Spring  Flowers 

The  Spring  she  is  a  blessed  thing; 

She  is  the  mother  of  the  flowers, 
She  is  the  mate  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  partner  of  their  revelries, 

Our  star  of  hope  through  wintry  hours. 

Mary  Howitt. 

The  eyes  of  Spring,  so  azure, 
Are  peeping  from  the  ground  ; 

They  are  the  darling  violets 
That  I  in  nosegays  bound. 

Heinrich  Heine. 

Again  has  come  the  Spring-time, 
With  the  crocus's  golden  bloom, 

With  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned  earth-mould, 
And  the  violet's  perfume. 

O  gardener !  tell  me  the  secret 

Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  and  sweet !  — 

— "  I  have  only  enriched  my  garden 

With  the  black  mire  from  the  street." 

Samuel  Longfellow. 

The  loveliest  flowers  the  closest  cling  to  earth, 
And  they  first  feel  the  sun :  so  violets  blue ; 
So  the  soft  star-like  primrose — drenched  in  dew — 
The  happiest  of  Spring's  happy,  fragrant  birth. 

John  Keble. 

To  Mistress  Daffodil 

Will  they  laugh  at  your  old-fashioned  gown, 


At  your  simple  and  plain  little  gown, 
As  you  enter  the  streets  of  the  town, — 
Pass  you  by  with  a  sneer  and  a  frown, 


Nay,  tell  them  old  fashions  are  best, 


Old  friends  are  the  dearest  and  best, 
And  the  flower  we  would  wear  at  our  breast 
Is  the  one  longer  loved  than  the  rest — 


Margaret  Johnson. 

No  pampered  bloom  of  the  greenhouse  chamber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


The  universal  flower  in  the  old-time  garden  was 
the  Lilac;  it  was  the  most  beloved  bloom  of  spring, 
and  gave  a  name  to  Spring — Lilac  tide.  *  *  *  Lilacs 
shade  the  front  yard;  Lilacs  grow  by  the  kitchen 
doorstep ;  Lilacs  spring  up  beside  the  barn  ;  Lilacs 
shade  the  well;  Lilacs  hang  over  the  spring  house; 
Lilacs  crowd  by  the  fence  side  and  down  the  country 
road.  In  many  colonial  dooryards  it  was  the  only 
shrub — known  both  to  lettered  and  unlettered  folk 
as  Laylock,  and  spelt  Laylock  too. 

Alice  Morse  Earle. 

How  fair  it  stood,  with  purple  tassels  hung, 

Their  hue  more  tender  than  the  tint  of  Tyre  ; 

How  musical  amid  their  fragrance  rung 

The  bee's   bassoon,  keynote   of   spring's  glad 
choir  ! 

0  languorous  Lilac  !  still  in  time's  despite 

1  see  thy  plumy  branches  all  alight 

With  new-born  butterflies  which  loved  to  stay 
And  bask  and  banquet  in  the  temperate  ray 
Of  springtime,  ere  the  torrid  heats  should  be  : 

For  these  dear  memories,  though  the  world  grow 

I  sing  thy  sweetness,  lovely  Lilac  tree  ! 

Elizabeth  Aken. 

Shrubs  there  are 

*  *  *  That  at  the  call  of  Spring 
Burst  forth  in  blossomed  fragrance  ;    lilacs,  robed 
In  snow-white  innocence  or  purple  pride. 

James  Thomson. 

The  Lilac  bush,  tall  growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves 
of  rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom,  rising  delicate  with 
the  perfume  strong,  I  love. 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle.  ,„  ,f  TJVJ.-. 

*  Walt  Whitman. 

Lilac  of  Persia !  tell  us  some  fine  tale 

Of  Eastern  lands  ;  we're  fond  of  travellers. 

Have  you  no  legends  of  some  Sultan  proud, 

Or  old  fire-worshipper  ?     What,  not  one  note 

Made  on  your  voyage  ?  Well,  'tis  wondrous  strange 

That  you  should  let  so  rare  a  chance  pass  by, 

While  those  who  never  journeyed  half  so  far 

Fill  sundry  volumes,  and  expect  the  world 

To  reverently  peruse  and  magnify 

What  it  well  knew  before  !  T   ,.    „  „• 

Lyaia  H.  Sigourney. 

autumn  <JFlotpet# 

i  These  few  pale  Autumn  flowers ! 

How  beautiful  they  are  ! 
Than  all  that  went  before, 
Than  all  the  Summer  store, 

How  lovelier  far ! 

Caroline  Southey. 

There  comes  a  time  when  we  cherish  chrysan- 
themums and  china-asters  even  of  the  most  ordinary 
sort;  but  that  is  not  till  the  violets  and  the  roses 
and  the  lilies  are  all  faded. 

Ellen   Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

The  purple  asters  bloom  in  crowds 

In  every  shady  nook, 
And  ladies'  ear-drops  deck  the  banks 

Of  many  a  babbling  brook. 

Elaine  Goodale. 


This  flower  that  first  appeared  as  Summer's  guest 
Preserves  her  beauty  'mid  autumnal  leaves, 
And  to  her  mournful  habit  fondly  clings. 

William  Wordsworth. 

"  The  gentian  hid  a  thoughtful  eye 
Beneath  dark  fringes,  blue  and  shy, 
Only  by  warmest  noonbeams  won 
To  meet  the  welcome  of  the  sun." 

Origin  of  the  Gentian 

Once  to  the  Angel  of  Birds,  far  up  in  the  rippling  air, 
From  low  on  the    sun-loved    earth   the   Angel   of 

Flowers  breathed  a  prayer  : 
"  Four   plumes  from  the  bluebird's  wing  and   I'll 

make  me  something  rare." 
Four  plumes  from  the  bluebird's  wing,  as  fast  to  the 

South  he  flew  ! 
The  Angel  of  Flowers  caught  them  up  as  they  fell  in 

the  Autumn  dew, 
And  shaped  with  a  twirl  of  her  fingers  this  spire  of 

feathery  blue. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

iff  lowers 

I  like  white  flowers  better  than  any  others  ;  they 
resemble  fair  women.  Lily,  Tuberose,  Orange  and 
the  truly  English  Syringa  are  my  heart's  delight. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

And  the  stately  lilies  stand 

Fair  in  the  silvery  light, 
Like  saintly  vestals,  pale  in  prayer; 
Their  pure  breath  sanctifies  the  air, 

As  its  fragrance  fills  the  night. 

Julia  C.  R. 


"  Somebody  said  that  a  lily  didn't  have  no  pore 
kin  among  the  flowers.  It  ain't  no  wonder  they 
most  die  of  dignity.  They're  like  the  'Piscopals  in 
more  ways  'n  one ;  both  hates  to  be  disturbed,  both 
like  some  shade,  an'  " — confidentially — "  both  air 
putty  pernickity :  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  ain't 
nothin'  kin  touch  'em  when  it  comes  to  beauty !  I 
think  all  the  other  beds  is  proud  of  'em,  if  you'd 
come  to  look  into  it.  Why,  look  at  weddin's  an* 
funerals.  Don't  all  the  churches  call  in  the  'Pisco- 
pals an'  the  lilies  on  both  occasions  ?" 

Alice  Hegan  Rice. 

We  are  Lilies  fair, 

The  flower  of  virgin  light, 

Nature  held  us  forth,  and  said — 
"  Lo  !  my  thoughts  of  white." 

Ever  since  then,  Angels 

Hold  us  in  their  hands; 
You  may  see  them  where  they  take 

In  pictures  their  sweet  stands. 

Like  the  garden's  angels 

Also  do  we  seem, 
And  not  the  less  for  being  crowned 

With  a  golden  dream. 

Could  you  see  around  us 

The  enamoured  air, 
You  would  see  it  pale  with  bliss 

To  hold  a  thing  so  fair.      Leigh  Hunf 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen, 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

A  Bulb 

Misshapen,  black,  unlovely  to  the  sight, 
O  mute  companion  of  the  murky  mole, 

You  must  feel  overjoyed  to  have  a  white, 
Imperious,  dainty  lily  for  a  soul ! 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick. 

The  tuberose,  with  her  silvery  light, 

That  in  the  gardens  of  Malay 
Is  called  the  Mistress  of  the  Night, 
So  like  a  bride,  scented  and  bright ; 
She  comes  out  when  the  sun's  away. 

Thomas  Moore. 

My  White  Chrysanthemum 

As  purely  white  as  is  the  drifted  snow, 

More  dazzling  fair  than  summer  roses  are; 
Petalled  with  rays  like  a  clear  rounded  star, 

When  winds  pipe  chilly  and  red  sunsets  glow, 
Your  blossoms  blow. 

Sweet  with  a  freshening  fragrance,  all  their  own, 
In  which  a  faint,  dim  breath  of  bitter  lies, 
Like  wholesome  truth  'mid  honeyed  flatteries ; 

When  other  blooms  are  dead,  and  birds  have  flown, 
You  stand  alone. 

Fronting  the  winter  with  a  fearless  grace, 
Flavoring  the  odorless  gray  autumn  chill, 
Nipped  by  the  furtive  frosts,  but  cheery  still, 

Lifting  to  heaven  from  the  bare  garden  place 

A  smiling  face.  c        n   ,., 

Susan  Coohage. 

Azaleas — whitest  of  white  ! 

White  as  the  drifted  snow 
Fresh-fallen  out  of  the  night, 

Before  the  coming  glow 
Tinges  the  morning  light ; 

When  the  light  is  like  the  snow, 

And  the  silence  is  like  the  light : 

Light,  and  silence,  and  snow, — 
All — white ! 

White  !  not  a  hint 
Of  the  creamy  tint 

A  rose  will  hold, 

The  whitest  rose  in  its  inmost  fold; 
Not  a  possible  blush ; 
White  as  an  embodied  hush ; 
A  very  rapture  of  white; 
A  wedlock  of  silence  and  light ; 
White,  white  as  the  wonder  undefiled 
Of  Eve  just  wakened  in  Paradise  ; 
Nay,  white  as  the  angel  of  a  child 
That  looks  into  God's  own  eyes  ! 

Harriet  McEwen  Kimball. 


If  blue  is  the  favorite  colour  of  bees,  and  if 
bees  have  so  much  to  do  with  the  origin  of  flowers, 
how  is  it  that  there  are  so  few  blue  ones  !  I  believe 
the  explanation  to  be  that  all  blue  flowers  have  de- 
scended from  ancestors  in  which  the  flowers  were 
green ;  or,  to  speak  more  precisely,  in  which  the 
leaves  surrounding  the  stamens  and  pistil  were  green, 
and  that  they  have  passed  through  stages  of  white 
or  yellow,  and  generally  red,  before  becoming  blue. 

Sir  John  Lubbock. 

The  hyacinth  for  constancy  wi'  its   unchanging 

blue.  „  ,      „ 

Robert  Burns. 

Origin  of  Violets 

I  know,  blue  modest  violets, 

Gleaming  with  dew  at  morn — 

I  know  the  place  you  come  from 
And  the  way  that  you  are  born  ! 

When  God  cut  holes  in  Heaven, 
The  holes  the  stars  look  through, 

He  let  the  scraps  fall  down  to  earth, — 
The  little  scraps  are  you.         Uaknotvn. 

Flower-de-Luce,  the  flower  of  chivalry — with  a 
sword  for  its  leaf,  and  a  Lily  for  its  heart. 

John  Ruskin. 


Blue  bells,  on  blue  hills,  where  the  sky  is  blue, 
Here's  a  little  blue-gowned  maid  come  to  look  at  you ; 
Here's  a  little  child  would  fain,  at  the  vesper  time, 
Catch  the  music  of  your  hearts,  hear  the  harebells 

chime — 

"  Little  hare,  little  hare,"  softly  prayeth  she, 
"  Come,  come  across  the  hills,  and  ring  the  bells 
for  me."  P   .,    -.*   „    tr-  z 

Emi/v  M.  P.  HieKey. 

The  blue  Flag:  a  little  too  showy  and  gaudy, 

like  some  women's  bonnets.        „        n     -j  <rt 

Henry  David  Thoreau. 

Sweet  lavender !     I  love  thy  flower 

Of  meek  and  modest  blue, 
Which  meets  the  morn  and  evening  hour, 
The  storm,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shower, 

And  changeth  not  its  hue. 

Agnes  Strickland. 

The  Historical  Rose 

The  Rose  doth  deserve  the  chiefest  and  most 
principall  place  among  all  flowers  whatsoever ;  being 
not  only  esteemed  for  his  beautie,  vertues,  and  his 
fragrant  smell,  but  also  because  it  is  the  honour  and 
ornament  of  our  English  Sceptre. 

John  Gerarde,  1560. 

"  The  brawl  to-day 

Grown  to  this  faction  in  the  Temple  Garden 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  Rose  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night." 


The  White  Rose 

Sent  by  a  Yorkish  Lover  to  his  Lancastrian  Mistress 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 

Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 
'Twill  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 

And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 

As  kiss  it  thou  mayest  deign, 

With  envy  pale  'twill  lose  its  dye, 

And  Yorkish  turn  again.        Anonymous. 

The  Floweret  of  a  Hundred  Leaves 

The  joyous  time — when  pleasures  pour 
Profusely  round,  and  in  their  shower 
Hearts  open  like  the  season's  Rose — 
The  Floweret  of  a  Hundred  Leaves, 
Expanding  while  the  dew-fall  flows, 
And  every  leaf  its  balm  receives. 

Thomas  Moore. 

Near  that  old  Rose  named  from  its  hundred  kaves 
The  lovely  Bridal  Roses  sweetly  blush; 

The  Climbing  Rose  across  the  trellis  weaves 
A  canopy  suffused  with  tender  flush ; 

The  Damask  Roses  swing  on  tiny  trees, 

And  here  the  Seven  Sisters  glow  like  floral  pleiades. 

John  Russell  Hayes. 

Each  New  Year  is  a  leaf  of  our  love's  rose ; 
It  falls,  but  quick  another  rose-leaf  grows. 
So  is  the  flower  from  year  to  year  the  same, 
But  richer,  for  the  dead  leaves  feed  its  flame. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

O  beautiful,  royal  Rose, 

0  Rose  so  fair  and  sweet ! 
Queen  of  the  garden  art  thou, 

And  I — the  Clay  at  thy  feet! 


It  is  not  mine  to  approach  thee ; 

1  never  may  kiss  thy  lips, 

Or  touch  the  hem  of  thy  garment 
With  tremulous  finger-tips, 

Yet,  O  thou  beautiful  Rose  ! 

Queen  rose,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
What  were  lover  or  crown  to  thee 

Without  the  Clay  at  thy  feet? 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 

The  lily  has  an  air, 

And  the  snowdrop  a  grace, 

And  the  sweet  pea  a  way, 

And  the  heart' s-ease  a  face, — 

Yet  there's  nothing  like  the  rose 
When  she  blows. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 

Omar's  Rose 

Look  to  the  Rose  that  blows  about  us — "  Lo, 
"  Laughing,"  she  says,  "  into  this  World  I  blow : 

"  At  once  the  silken  Tassel  of  my  Purse 
"Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throws." 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 

O  stately  Roses,  yellow,  white,  and  red, 
As  Omar  loved  you,  so  we  love  to-day. 

Some  Roses  with  the  vanished  years  have  sped, 
And  some  our  mother's  mothers  laid  away 

Among  their  bridal  gown's  soft  silken  folds, 

Where  each  pale  petal  for  their  sons  a  precious 
memory  holds. 

And  some  we  find  among  the  yellowed  leaves 
Of  slender  albums,  once  the  parlor's  pride, 

Where  faint-traced  Ivy-pattern  interweaves 
The  mottoes  over  which  the  maiden  sighed. 

O  faded  Roses,  did  they  match  your  red, 

Those  fair  young  cheeks  whose  color  long  ago 

with  years  has  fled?  Jgha  Russf// Hay^ 

The  Moss  Rose 

The  angel  of  the  flowers  one  day, 
Beneath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay, — 
That  spirit  to  whose  charge  'tis  given 
To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  of  heaven. 
Awaking  from  his  light  repose, 
The  angel  whispered  to  the  rose : 
"  O  fondest  object  of  my  care, 
Still  fairest  found,  where  all  are  fair; 
For  the  sweet  shade  thou  giv'st  to  me 
Ask  what  thou  wilt,  't  is  granted  thee." 
"  Then,"  said  the  rose,  with  deepened  glow, 
"  On  me  another  grace  bestow." 
The  spirit  paused,  in  silent  thought, 

What  grace  was  there  that  flower  had  not? 
'Twas  but  a  moment,  —  o'er  the  rose 
A  veil  of  moss  the  angel  throws, 
And,  robed  in  nature's  simplest  weed, 
Could  there  a  flower  that  rose  exceed  ? 

From  the  German  of  Krummacher. 


"The  Garden  Hypnotist" 

The  poppy,  though  brief  of  days,  is  the  garden 
hypnotist.  Look  steadily  at  a  mass  of  these  glowing 
flowers  blending  their  multicolors  in  the  full  sunlight. 
At  first  their  brilliancy  is  blinding;  then  as  the  pet- 
als undulate  on  the  slender  stems,  your  attention  is 
riveted  as  if  a  hundred  eyes  returned  your  gaze,  and 
drowsiness  steals  over  you,  for  each  flower  bears  the 
spell  of  the  hypnotic  pod,  whose  seeds  bring  sleep. 

"  The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife." 

(Mabel  Osgood  Wright.'} 

We  are  slumbrous  poppies 

Lords  of  Lethe  downs, 
Some  awake,  and  some  asleep, 

Sleeping  in  our  crowns. 
What  perchance  our  dreams  may  know, 
Let  our  serious  beauty  show. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

I  have  in  my  hand  a  small  red  Poppy  which  I 
gathered  on  Whit-Sunday  in  the  palace  of  the  Caesars. 
It  is  an  intensely  simple,  intensely  floral  flower. 
All  silk  and  flame,  a  scarlet  cup  !  perfect  edged  all 
round,  seen  among  the  wild  grass  far  away  like  a 
burning  coal  fallen  from  Heaven's  altars.  You 
cannot  have  a  more  complete,  a  more  stainless  type 

of  flower  absolute ;  inside  and  outside  all  flower. 
No  sparing  of  color  anywhere,  no  outside  coarsenesses, 
no  interior  secrecies,  open  as  the  sunshine  that  creates 
it ;  fine  finished  on  both  sides,  down  to  the  extremest 
point  of  insertion  on  its  narrow  stalk,  and  robed  in 
the  purple  of  the  Caesars.  John  Rusk^ 

Here  the  poppy  hosts  assemble : 
How  they  startle,  how  they  tremble ! 
All  their  royal  hoods  unpinned 
Blow  out  lightly  in  the  wind. 
Here  is  gold  to  labor  for ; 
Here  is  pillage  worth  a  war. 
Men  that  in  the  cities  grind, 
Come  !  before  the  heart  is  blind. 

Edwin  Markham. 


A  seed  we  say  is  a  simple  thing, 

The  germ  of  a  flower  or  weed, — 
But  all  Earth's  workmen,  laboring 
With  all  the  help  that  wealth  could  bring, 
Never  could  make  a  seed. 

Julian  S.  Cutler. 

Of  all  the  wonderful  things  in  the  wonderful 
universe  of  God,  nothing  seems  to  me  more  sur- 
prising than  the  planting  of  a  seed  in  the  blank  earth 
and  the  result  thereof.  Take  a  poppy  seed,  for 
instance:  it  lies  in  your  palm,  the  merest  atom  of 
matter,  hardly  visible,  a  speck,  a  pin's  point  in  bulk, 
but  within  it  is  imprisoned  a  spirit  of  beauty  ineffable, 
which  will  break  its  bonds  and  emerge  from  the  dark 
ground  and  blossom  in  a  splendor  so  dazzling  as  to 
baffle  all  powers  of  description. 

The  Genie  in  the  Arabian  tale  is  not  half  so 
astonishing.  In  this  tiny  casket  lie  folded  roots, 
stalks,  leaves,  buds,  flowers,  seed-vessels, — surprising 
color  and  beautiful  form,  all  that  goes  to  make  up  a 
plant  which  is  as  gigantic  in  proportion  to  the  bounds 
that  confine  it  as  the  Oak  is  to  the  acorn. 

Celia  Thaxter. 

Oh,  downy  dandelion  wings, 

Wild  floating  wings  like  silver  spun, 

That  dance  and  glitter  in  the  sun ! 

You  airy  things,  you  elfin  things, 

That  June-time  always  brings  ! 

Oh,  are  you  seeds  that  seek  the  earth, 

The  light  of  laughing  flowers  to  spread  ? 

Or  flitting  fairies,  that  had  birth 

When  merry  words  were  said? 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 

Baby  Seed  Song 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother, 

Are  you  awake  in  the  dark? 
Here  we  lie  cosily,  close  to  each  other: 

Hark  to  the  song  of  the  lark — 
"Waken !"  the  lark  says,  "waken  and  dress  you ; 

Put  on  your  green  coats  and  gay, 
Blue  sky  will  shine  on  you,  sunshine  caress  you — 

Waken!  'tis  morning — 'tis  May!" 

Edith  Nesbit  Eland. 

A  weed  is  a  plant  out  of  place. 

Margaret  Scott  Gatty. 

With  the  first  faint  green  lines  that  are  visible 
among  the  flower  beds  come  the  weeds,  yea,  and  even 
before  them;  a  wild  vigorous  straggling  army,  full 
of  health,  of  strength,  and  a  most  marvelous  power 

of  growth.  These  must  be  dealt  with  at  once  and 
without  mercy;  they  must  be  pulled  up  root  and 
branch,  without  a  moment's  delay.  Celia  Thaxter. 

I  scarcely  dare  trust  myself  to  speak  of  the  weeds. 
They  grow  as  if  the  devil  was  in  them.  I  know  a 
lady,  a  member  of  the  church,  and  a  very  good  sort 
of  woman,  considering  the  subject  condition  of  that 
class,  who  says  that  the  weeds  work  on  her  to  that 
extent  that,  in  going  through  her  garden,  she  has  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  keeping  the  ten  commandments 
in  anything  like  an  unfractured  condition.  I  asked 
her  which  one,  but  she  said,  all  of  them  :  one  felt 

like  breaking  the  whole  lot.        Charle,  Dudley  Warner. 

You  cannot  forget  if  you  would  those  golden 
kisses  all  over  the  cheeks  of  the  meadow,  queerly 
called  dandelions.  Henry  WardBeecher. 

The  Young  Dandelion 

I  am  a  bold  fellow 

As  ever  was  seen, 
With  my  shield  of  yellow, 

In  the  grass  green. 

You  may  unroot  me 

From  field  and  from  lane, 

Trample  me,  cull  me  — 
I  spring  up  again. 

I  never  flinch,  sir, 

Wherever  I  dwell; 
Give  me  an  inch,  sir, 

I'll  soon  take  an  ell. 

Drive  me  from  garden 

In  anger  and  pride, 
I'll  thrive  and  harden 

By  the  road-side. 

Dinah  Mulock   Craik. 

The  Grass 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, — 
A  sphere  of  simple  green, 
With  only  butterflies  to  brood, 
And  bees  to  entertain, 

And  stir  all  day  to  pretty  tunes 
The  breezes  fetch  along, 
And  hold  the  sunshine  in  its  lap 
And  bow  to  everything; 

And  thread  the  dew  all  night,  like  pearls, 
And  make  itself  so  fine, — 
A  duchess  were  too  common 
For  such  a  noticing. 

And  even  when  it  dies,  to  pass 
In  odors  so  divine, 
As  lowly  spices  gone  to  sleep, 
Or  amulet  of  pine. 

And  then  to  dwell  in  sovereign  barns, 

And  dream  the  days  away, — 

The  grass  so  little  has  to  do, 

I  wish  I  were  the  hay!  Emily  D-fkias^ 


And  the  people  said  when  they  saw  them  there, 
The  fairy  umbrellas  out  in  the  rain: 

(<O  Spring  has  come,  so  sweet  and  so  fair, 

For  there  are  those  odd  little  toadstools  again." 

G.  Packard  Du  Bois. 

There's  a  thing  that  grows  by  the  fainting  flower, 
And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady's  bower; 
The  lily  shrinks  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 
When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride, 
And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside; 

But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip  stare, 
For. what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care? 

She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest, 
And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's  breast; 
But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 
In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 
And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 
Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes, 
The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 
The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Five  little  white-heads  peeped  out  of  the  mold, 
When  the  dew  was  damp  and  the  night  was  cold, 

And  they  crowded  their  way  through  the  soil  with  pride : 
"Hurrah!  we  are  going  to  be  mushrooms!"  they 

But  the  sun  came  up,  and  the  sun  came  down, 

And  the  little  white -heads  were  withered  and 
brown : 

Long  were  their  faces,  their  pride  had  a  fall — 
They  were  nothing  but  toadstools,  after  all. 

Walter  Learned. 

£rt  fn  d&artiettg 

Nothing  is  more  completely  the  child  of  Art  than 

a  Gar<*en-  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

It  is  said  that  a  garden  should  always  be  considered 
simply  and  wholly  as  a  work  of  art,  and  should  not 
be  made  to  look  like  Nature.  That  is  true  enough. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  in  worse  taste  than  the  land- 
scape-gardener's imitations  of  Nature.  But  there  is 
another  plan.  If  your  garden  be  large  enough  you 
can  let  Nature  have  her  own  way  in  certain  parts  of 
it.  This  takes  time,  but  the  result  is  eminently  de- 

%htfuL  George  Milner. 

Our  British  gardeners,  on  the  contrary,  instead 
of  humouring  nature,  love  to  deviate  from  it  as  much 
as  possible.  Our  trees  rise  in  cones,  globes,  and  pyr- 
amids. We  see  the  marks  of  the  scissors  upon  every 
plant  and  bush.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  singu- 
lar in  my  opinion,  but  for  my  own  part,  I  would 
rather  look  upon  a  tree  in  all  its  luxuriancy  and  dif- 
fusion of  boughs  and  branches,  than  when  it  is  thus 
cut  and  trimmed  into  a  mathematical  figure,  and  can- 
not but  fancy  that  an  orchard  in  flower  looks  infi- 
nitely more  delightful  than  all  the  little  labyrinths  of 
the  most  finished  parterre.  Joseph 

To  begin,  then,  we  find  flower-beds  habitually 
considered  too  much  as  mere  masses  of  colour,  instead 
of  an  assemblage  of  living  beings.  The  only  thought 
is  to  delight  the  eye  by  the  utmost  possible  splendour. 
When  we  walk  in  our  public  gardens  everything 
seems  tending  to  distract  the  attention  from  the  sep- 
arate plants,  and  to  make  us  look  at  them  only  with 
regard  to  their  united  effect.  Forbes  WatsQn^ 

As  to  colour  in  gardens.  Flowers  in  masses  are 
mighty  strong  colour,  and  if  not  used  with  a  great  deal 
of  caution  are  very  destructive  to  pleasure  in  gar- 
dening. On  the  whole,  I  think  the  best  and  safest 
plan  'is  to  mix  up  your  flowers,  and  rather  eschew 
great  masses  of  colour  —  in  combination  I  mean. 

William  Morris. 

Variations  of  flowers  are  like  variations  in  music, 
often  beautiful  as  such,  but  almost  always  inferior  to 
the  theme  on  which  they  are  founded  —  the  original 
air.  And  the  rule  holds  good  in  beds  of  flowers,  if 
they  be  not  very  large,  or  in  any  other  small  assem- 
blage of  them.  Nay,  the  largest  bed  will  look  well 
if  of  one  beautiful  colour;  while  the  most  beautiful 
varieties  may  be  inharmoniously  mixed  up. 

Leigh  Hunt, 


One  of  the  greatest  ornaments  to  a  garden  is  a 
fountain,  but  many  fountains  are  curiously  ineffective. 

A  fountain  is  mo$t  beautiful  when  it  leaps  high 
into  the  air,  and  you  can  see  it  against  a  background 
of  green  foliage.  To  place  a  fountain  among  low 
flower-beds,  and  then  to  substitute  small  fancy  jets 
that  take  the  shape  of  a  cup,  or  trickle  over  into  a 
basin  of  gold-fish,  or  toy  with  a  gilded  ball,  is  to  do 
all  that  is  possible  to  degrade  it.  The  real  charm  of 
a  fountain  is,  when  you  come  upon  it  in  some  little 
grassy  glade  of  the  "pleasaunce"  where  it  seems  as 
though  it  sought,  in  the  strong  rush  of  its  waters,  to 
vie  with  the  tall  boles  of  the  forest-trees  that  sur- 
round it. 

Such  was  the  fountain  in  Leigh  Hunt's  Story  of 
Rimini,  which  shot  up  "  beneath  a  shade  of  darksome 
pines" — 

"And  'twixt  their  shafts  you  saw  the  water  bright, 
Which  through  the  tops  glimmered  with  show'ring  light." 

Henry  A.  Bright. 

For  Fountains,  they  are  a  Great  Beauty  and  Re- 
freshment, but  Pools  mar  all  and  make  the  Garden 
unwholesome,  and  full  of  Flies  and  Frogs.  Fountains 
I  intend  to  be  of  two  Natures:  the  one  that  sprinkleth 
or  spouteth  water,  the  other  a  fair  Receipt  of  Water, 
of  some  thirty  or  forty  foot  square,  but  without  Fish, 

or  Slime,  or  Mud. 

Francis  Bacon  (Lord  Verulam). 

It  stood  as  the  garden  god  of  Christian  gardens. 
Why  is  it  almost  everywhere  banished?  If  its  busi- 
ness use  be  suspended  by  more  elaborate  inventions, 

its  moral  uses,  its  beauty,  might  have  pleaded  for  its 
continuance.  It  spoke  of  moderate  labors,  of  pleas- 
ures not  protracted  after  sunset,  of  temperance  and 
good  hours.  It  was  the  primitive  clock,  the  horo- 
logue  of  the  first  world.  Adam  could  scarce  have 
missed  it  in  Paradise.  The  "shepherd  carved  it  out 
quaintly  in  the  sun,"  and  turning  philosopher  by  the 
very  occupation,  provided  it  with  mottoes  more  touch- 
ing than  tombstones.  c,  ,  ,  , 

'Tis  an  old  dial  with  many  a  stain: 

In  Summer   crowned   with    drifting   orchard 

Tricked  in  the  Autumn  with  the  yellow  rain, 

And  white  in  Winter  like  a  marble  tomb. 

And  round  about  its  gray,  time-eaten  brow 

Lean   letters   speak — a  worn    and    shattered 

row:  — 
"I  am  a  Shade — a  Shadowe,  too,  arte  thou. 

I  mark  the  Time.     Saye!  Gossip!  Dost  thou 
soe?"  .  ,.    n  , 

Austin  Dobson, 

Sun-Dial  Mottoes 

A  clock  the  time  may  wrongly  tell, 
I,  never,  if  the  sun  shines  well. 

Old  English. 

Let  others  tell  of  storms  and  showers, 
I'll  only  count  your  sunny  hours. 

Sun- dial  at  Sandringham, 

I  count  none  but  sunny  hours, 
Be  the  day  weary,  be  the  day  long, 
Soon  it  shall  ring  to  even  song. 

What's  the  Time  o'  the  Day? 

Time  is 

Too  Slow  for  those  who  Wait, 
Too  Swift  for  those  who  Fear, 
Too  Long  for  those  who  Grieve, 
Too  Short  for  those  who  Rejoice; 
But  for  those  who  Love, 

Time  is 


Motto  for  a  Sun-dial  by  Henry  van  Dyke. 

A  Garden  of  the  Sun 

*  *  *  A  small  level  lawn  in  the  centre  of  which 
stood  the  sun-dial  acting  as  the  hub  to  a  large  wheel- 
shaped  flower  bed,  or,  rather,  group  of  beds,  as  the 
wide  spokes,  each  of  a  different  but  harmonizing 
colour,  were  separated  by  narrow  grass  walks. 
A  similar  walk  circled  the  spokes  and  was  bounded 
in  turn  by  a  circular  bed  that  might  be  called  the 
tire  of  the  wheel,  and  divided  the  grass  walk  into 
four  in  order  that  one  might  get  to  the  centre  with- 
out walking  through  the  outer  bed. 

Four  graceful  wing-shaped  beds  filled  the  corners 
of  the  grass  plot,  which  by  actual  measurement 
proved  to  be  forty  feet  square. 

This  plateau  was  on  three  sides  enough  higher 
than  the  surrounding  ground  to  allow  an  arbitrary 
grass  slope  of  two  feet,  with  a  couple  of  steps  where 
the  long  walk  joined  it.  *  *  *  It  is  to  contain  only 
the  perishable  summer  flowers,  really  flowers  of  the 
sun,  and  fit  companions  of  the  sun-dial. 

"  The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife." 

(Mabel  Osgood  Wright.) 

A  Floral  Sun-Dial 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new, 

,  When  from  above  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  Zodiac  run ; 
And  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we ! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ! 

Andrew  Marvell. 

Saying  all  one  feels  and  thinks 
In  clever  daffodils  and  pinks; 
In  puns  of  tulips ;  and  in  phrases 
Charming  for  their  truth,  of  daisies 
Uttering  as  well  as  silence  may, 
The  sweetest  words  the  sweetest  way. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

In  these  the  alphabet 
Of  flowers;    how  they  devisedly  being  set 
And  bound  up,  might  with  speechless  secrecy 
Deliver  errands  mutely  and  mutually.    ~  hn 


an&  dffaraeng 

As  orchards  to  men,  so  are  flowers  and  herbs  to 
women.  Indeed  the  garden  appears  celibate,  as 
does  the  house,  without  womanly  hands  to  plant 
and  care  for  it.  Amos  Bronson 

In  writing  of  her  life  near  Albany,  in  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  Mrs.  Anne  Grant  has 
left  the?ibllowing  record  of  the  Dutch  vrouws:  — 

"The  care  of  plants  such  as  needed  peculiar 
care  or  skill  to  rear  them,  was  the  female  province. 
Every  one  in  town  or  country  had  a  garden.  Into 
this  garden  no  foot  of  man  intruded  after  it  was  dug 
in  the  Spring.  I  think  I  see  yet  what  I  have  so 
often  beheld  —  a  respectabk  mistress  of  a  family 

going  out  to  her  garden,  on  an  April  morning,  with 
her  great  calash,  her  little  painted  basket  of  seeds, 
and  her  rake  over  her  shoulder  to  her  garden  of 
labours.  A  woman  in  very  easy  circumstances  and 
abundantly  gentle  in  form  and  manners  would  sow 
and  plant  and  rake  incessantly." 

Good  huswives  provide,  ere  an  sickness  do  come, 
Of  sundrie  good  things  in  house  to  have  some : 
Good  aqua  composita,  vinegar  tart, 
Rose  water  and  treacle  to  comfort  the  heart, 
Good  herbes  in  the  garden  for  agues  that  burn, 
That  over  strong  heat  to  good  temper  turn. 

Thomas  Tusser. 

My  garden  was  a  plain  vineyard  when  it  came 
into  my  hands  not  two  years  ago,  and  it  is  with  a 
small  expense,  turned  into  a  garden  that  (apart  from 
the  advantages  of  the  climate)  I  like  better  than 
that  of  Kensington.  The  Italian  vineyards  are  not 
planted  like  those  in  France,  but  in  clumps,  fastened 
to  trees  planted  in  equal  ranks  (commonly  fruit  trees), 
and  continued  in  festoons  from  one  to  the  other, 
which  I  have  turned  into  covered  galleries  of  shade, 
that  I  can  walk  in  the  heat  without  being  incom- 
moded by  it. 

I  have  made  a  dining-room  of  verdure,  capable 
of  holding  a  table  of  twenty  covers;  the  whole 
ground  is  317  feet  in  length,  and  200  in  breadth. 
You  see  it  is  far  from  large ;  but  so  prettily  disposed 
(though  I  say  it)  that  I  never  saw  a  more  agreeable 
rustic  garden,  abounding  with  all  sorts  of  fruit,  and 
producing  a  variety  of  wines. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu. 
(A  Letter,  dated  Louvere,  July  loth,  1753.) 

Any  book  I  see  advertised  that  treats  of  Gardens 
I  immediately  buy.  (( Thg  So/.(ary  Summgr,, 

(Countess  von  Arnim.} 


Books  Versus  Gardens 

Bookes  (Courteous  Reader)  may  rightly  be 
compared  to  Gardens  ;  Wherein,  let  the  painfull 
Gardiner  expresse  never  so  much  care  and  diligent 
endeavor  ;  yet  among  the  very  fairest,  sweetest  and 
freshest  Flowers,  as  also  Plants  of  most  precious 
Vertue  ;  ill  savouring  and  stinking  weeds,  fit  for  no 
use  but  the  fire  or  mucke-hill,  will  spring  and  sprout 
up.  So  fareth  it  with  Bookes  of  the  very  best  qual- 
ity ;  let  the  Author  bee  never  so  indulgent,  and  the 
Printer  vigilant;  yet  both  may  misse  their  ayme,  by 
the  escape  of  Errors  and  Mistakes,  either  in  sense 
or  matter,  the  one  fault  by  a  ragged  Written  Copy  ; 
and  the  other  through  want  of  wary  Correction. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio. 

1  write  in  a  nook  that  I  call  my  boudoir;  it  is 
a  summer-house  not  bigger  than  a  sedan-chair;  the 
door  of  it  opens  into  the  garden  that  is  now  crowded 
with  pinks,  roses  and  honeysuckles,  and  the  window 
into  my  neighbour's  orchard.  It  formerly  served 
an  apothecary  as  a  smoking-room;  at  present,  how- 
ever, it  is  dedicated  to  sublimer  uses. 

x_    William  Cotoper. 

A  Garden  of  Books 

Where  'may  one  indulge  in  day-dreams,  if  not 
in  a  Garden!  In  the  very  centre  of  the  garden, 
away  from  house  or  cottage,  but  united  to  it  by  a 
pleached  alley  or  pergola  of  vines  or  roses,  an  oc- 
tagonal book-tower  like  Montaigne's  rises  upon 
arches  forming  an  arbour  of  scented  shade.  Between 
the  book-shelves,  windows  at  every  angle,"  as  in 
Pliny's  Villa  library,  opening  upon  a  broad  gallery 
supported  by  pillars  of  "faire  carpenter's  work," 

round  which  cluster  flowering  creepers,  follow  the 
course  of  the  sun  in  its  play  upon  the  landscape. 
"  Last  stage  of  all,"  a  glass  dome  gives  gaze  upon 
the  stars  by  night  and  the  clouds  by  day.  *  *  * 
And  in  this  Garden  of  Books  —  sui  et  amicorum, 
would  pass  the  coloured  days  and  the  white  nights, 
"  not  in  quite  blank  forgetfulness,  but  in  continuous 
dreaming,  only  half-veiled  by  sleep." 

Albert  Forbes  Sieveking. 

I  like  a  writer  who  is  original  enough  to  water 
his  garden  with  quotations,  without  fear  of  being 
drowned  out.  H(nry  van  Dykg 

What's  in  a  Name? 

What's  in  a  name  ?  that  which  we  call  a  rose 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 


The  flower-names  are  often  little  poems  in 
themselves.  Those  long  uncouth  names,  dreaded 
in  botany,  hide  Nature-meanings  in  them.  Helio- 
trope is  "  she  who  turns  to  the  sun  ;"  *  *  *  Nastur- 
tium carries  its  meaning  of  "bent-nose"  in  its  face; 
Geranium  is  "  crane's-bill,"  —  let  the  seed-vessel  grow 
and  it  will  tell  the  reason  why  ;  Saxifrage  is  "  rock- 
cleaver,"  named  so  from  its  birthplace  in  the  clefts; 
Anemone  is  "wind-flower."  These,  you  see,  were 
but  simple  heart  and  eye  names  to  the  Greeks  or 
Romans,  just  as  we  call  the  pets  heart's-ease,  day's 
eye,  morning-glory,  honeysuckle,  mignonette.  Each 
people  has  its  !own.  Other  flower-names  come 
down  to  us  impearled  with  myth  and  story,  —  the 
hyacinth,  narcissus,  Solomon's  seal,  arethusa,  the 
passion  flower.  mlliam  c 

"The  Frenchman's  Darling": — 
It  was  Cowper  who  gave  this  now  common  name  to 
the  Mignonette. 


When  to  the  flowers — so  beautiful — 

The  Father  gave  a  name, 
Back  came  a  little  blue-eyed  one 

(All  timidly  it  came) 
And  standing  at  its  Father's  feet, 

And  gazing  in  His  face — 
It  said  in  low  and  trembling  tones, 

With  sweet  and  gentle  grace, 
"  Dear  God,  the  name  thou  gavest  me 

Alas  !  I  have  forgot." 
Then  kindly  looked  the  Father  down, 

And  said,  "  Forget-me-not. "     Unknown, 

We  may  fancy  that  Eve — herself  the  first  rose 
of  womanhood — gave  its  name  among  the  roses  of 
Eden,  and  we  like  to  think  that  as  Adam  gave  names 
to  all  cattle,  Eve  tried  her  syllables  upon  the  flowers. 
Her  joy  in  existence  and  love  must  have  blossomed 
easily  into  words,  as  she  emphasized  one  after 
another  of  them, — was  it  love  or  praise,  speech 
half  asleep,  or  song  half  awake?  Canda(e  wheeltr% 


The  chief  use  of  flowers  is  to  illustrate  quota- 
tions from  the  poets.  Selected 


There  is  probably  no  famous  poet  that  has  not 
sealed  his  fame  into  a  song  about  some  favorite  of 
the  fields.  Wordsworth's  celandines  and  daffodils 
are  noted,  and  Burns's  daisy,  and  Herbert's  rose,  and 

Emerson's  rhodora,  and  Lowell's  dandelion;  while 
in  Chaucer  the  whole  Spring  buds  and  sings,  and  all 
along  the  lines  of  Tennyson  flowers  brush  you  with 
fine  touches.  mmam  c  Gaffagff 

The  flowers  are  Nature's  poems, 

In  blue  and  red  and  gold; 
With  every  change  from  bud  to  bloom, 

Sweet  fantasies  unfold. 

The  trees  are  Nature's  music  — 

Her  living  harps  are  they, 
On  which  the  fingers  of  the  wind 

Majestic  marches  play. 

Flowers  will  bloom  over  and  over  again  in  poems, 
as  in  the  summer  fields,  to  the  end  of  time,  always 
old  and  always  new.  Why  should  we  be  more  shy 
of  repeating  ourselves  than  the  Spring  be  tired  of  bios- 
soms  or  the  night  of  stars  ?  QKver  Wendgll  ^^ 

Who  ever  sees  a  hawthorn  or  a  sweetbrier  (the 
eglantine)  that  his  thoughts  do  not,  like  a  bolt  of 
light,  burst  through  ranks  of  poets,  and  ranges  of 
sparkling  conceits  which  have  been  born  since  Eng- 
land had  a  written  language,  and  of  which  the  rose, 
the  willow,  the  eglantine,  the  hawthorn,  and  other 
scores  of  vines  or  trees,  have  been  the  cause  as  they 
are  now  and  forevermore  the  suggestions  and  remem- 
brances? Who  ever  looks  upon  an  oak  and  does  not 
think  of  navies,  of  storms,  of  battles  on  the  ocean, 
of  the  noble  lyrics  of  the  sea,  of  English  glades,  of 
the  fugitive  Charles,  the  tree-mounted  monarch,  of 
the  Herne  oak,  of  parks,  and  forests  of  Robin  Hood 
and  his  merry  men,  of  old  baronial  halls  with  mellow 
light  streaming  through  diamond-shaped  panes  upon 
oaken  floors,  and  of  carved  oaken  wainscotings? 


flotocrg  for 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 

I  pluck  the  flowers  I  plucked  of  old 
About  my  feet — yet  fresh  and  cold 
The  Buttercups  do  bend; 
The  self-same  Buttercups  they  seem, 
Thick  in  the  bright-eyed  green,  and  such 
As  when  to  me  their  blissful  gleam 
Was  all  earth's  gold — how  much? 

Owen  Meredith. 

Flowers  preach  to  us  if  we  will  hear.   s 

Christina  G.  RossettL 

Flowers  are  Love's  truest  language;  they  betray 
Like  the  divining-rods  of  Magi  old, 
Where  precious  wealth  lies  buried ;  not  of  gold, 

But  love — strong  love,  that  never  can  decay! 

Park  Benjamin. 

"  Pray,  love,  remember :  and  there  is  pansies,  that's 

for  thoughts."  Shakespeare. 

Of  all  the  bonny  buds  that  blow 

In  bright  or  cloudy  weather, 
Of  all  the  flowers  that  come  and  go 

The  whole  twelve  moons  together, 
The  little  purple  pansy  brings 
Thoughts  of  the  sweetest,  saddest  things. 

Mary  E.  Bradley. 

Heart's-ease !  one  could  look  for  half  a  day 
Upon  this  flower,  and  shape  in  fancy  out 
Full  twenty  different  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
That  gave  this  gentle  name.       Mary 

Great  purple  pansies,  each  with  snowy  heart, 

And  golden  ones  with  eyes  of  deepest  blue; 
Some  "freaked  with  jet,"  some  pure  white  ones  apart, 
But  all  so  sweet  and  fresh  with  morning  dew, 
I  could  not  bear  to  lose  them, 
I  could  not  help  but  choose  them, 
For  sweet  Content  sat  singing  where  they  grew. 


Every-Day  Botany 

Who  doubts  there  are  classes 

Of  men,  like  the  grasses 
And  flowers  subdivided  in  many  a  way  ? 

You've  seen  them,  I've  seen  them, 

We've  jostled  between  them, 
These  manifold  specimens — day  after  day. 

You've  met  nettles  that  sting  you, 

And  roses  that  fling  you 
Their  exquisite  incense  from  warm,  hidden  hearts, 

And  bright  morning-glories 

That  tell  their  own  stories 
With  round  honest  faces,  rehearsing  their  parts. 

Sometimes  an  old  thistle 

Will  bluster  and  bustle, 
When  chance  or  necessity  leads  you  his  way; 

But  do  not  upbraid  him — 

He's  just  as  God  made  him; 
Perchance  some  small  good  he  has  done  in  his  day. 

The  poppies  think  sleeping 

Far  better  than  weeping, 
And  never  let  worry  usurp  a  good  nod ; 

They'll  laugh  and  grow  fatter 

O'er  any  grave  matter, 
When  sensitive  plants  would  sink  under  the  sod. 

The  hollyhocks  greet  you 

Wherever  they  meet  you, 
With  stiffest  of  bows,  or  a  curt  little  phrase; 

But  never  a  mullein 

Was  haughty  or  sullen, 

And  warm  are  their  hand-shakes,  if  awkward  their 

Ah!  never  a  flower, 

Blooming  wild  or  in  bower, 
But  lives  in  Humanity's  flora  anew; 

May  I  ask,  in  conclusion, 

'Mid  all  this  confusion, 
What  flower  we  shall  find  if  we  analyze  you? 

Katherine  H.  Perry, 


"The  Garden  of  Autographs" 

My  garden  is  a  veritable  album,  and  as  I  wan- 
der over  our  place  I  find  many  a  dear  friend  or 
happy  hour  commemorated  in  it.  This  little  clump 
of  oxalis,  naturalized  so  prettily  in  the  woods,  was 
gathered  one  lovely  day  when  a  merry  party  joined 
us  in  an  expedition  to  the  Profile  Notch.  That 
group  of  lady's-slippers  came  from  the  woods  of  a 
dear  friend  in  Vermont.  Here  are  moss-roses  from  a 
magnificent  rose-garden  in  Massachusetts,  and  there 
are  seedlings  from  the  home  of  Longfellow,  or  wil- 
lows rooted  from  cuttings  brought  from  the  South 
by  Frederick  Law  Olmsted.  Hardly  a  flower-loving 
friend  have  I  who  has  not  left  an  autograph  in  plant, 
or  shrub,  or  tree  in  my  garden,  and  in  like  manner 
many  a  thrifty  plant  has  left  my  borders  for  those  of 
distant  friends.  Mrj>  rheodore  Thgmas  (Rose 

A  garden  that  one  makes  oneself  becomes  asso- 
ciated with  one's  personal  history,  and  that  of  one's 

friends  interwoven  with  one's  tastes,  preferences  and 
character,  and  constitutes  a  sort  of  unwritten  but 
withal  manifest  autobiography.  Show  me  your  gar- 
den, provided  it  be  your  own,  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  you  are  like.  Alfred  Austin. 

€^e  JLote  of  f  lottery 

"  Who  loves  a  garden  still  his  Eden  keeps ; 
Perennial  pleasures  plants  and  wholesome  harvests 

You  have  heard  it  said — (and  I  believe  there  is 
more  than  fancy  even  in  that  saying,  but  let  it  pass 
for  a  fanciful  one) — that  flowers  only  flourish  rightly 
in  the  garden  of  some  one  who  loves  them.  I  know 
you  would  like  that  to  be  true ;  you  would  think  it 
a  pleasant  magic  if  you  could  flush  your  flowers  into 
brighter  bloom  by  a  kind  look  upon  them ;  nay, 
more,  if  your  look  had  the  power,  not  only  to  cheer, 
but  to  guard; — if  you  could  bid  the  black  blight 
turn  away,  and  the  knotted  caterpillar  spare — if  you 
could  bid  the  dew  fall  upon  them  in  the  drought, 
and  say  to  the  south  wind  in  frost — "Come,  thou 
South,  and  breathe  upon  my  garden  that  the  spices 
of  it  may  flow  out!"  John  Rus kin. 

As  I  work  among  my  flowers,  I  find  myself 
talking  to  them,  reasoning  and  remonstrating  with 
them,  and  adoring  them  as  if  they  were  human  beings. 

Cetia  Thaxter. 

"  Thou  bearest  flowers  within  Thy  hand, 
Thou  wearest  on  Thy  breast 

A  flower ;  now  tell  me  which  of  these 
Thy  flowers  Thou  lovest  best; 

Which  wilt  Thou  gather  to  Thy  heart 
Beloved  above  the  rest  ? " 

"Should  I  not  love  my  flowers, 

My  flowers  that  bloom  and  pine, 
Unseen,  unsought,  unwatched  for  hours 

By  any  eye  but  Mine  ? 
Should  I  not  love  my  flowers  ? 

I  love  my  lilies  tall, 
My  marigold  with  constant  eyes, 
Each  flower  that  blows,  each  flower  that  dies, 

To  Me,  I  love  them  all. 
I  gather  to  a  heavenly  bower 

My  roses  fair  and  sweet; 
I  hide  within  my  breast  the  flower 

That  grows  beside  my  feet." 

Dora  Greenwell. 

The   love    of  a   garden,   like    love    itself,    like 
charity,  never  fails.  ^  ReynM 

of  tlje 

People  whose  lives,  and  those  of  their  parents 
before  them,  have  been  spent  in  dingy  tenements, 
and  whose  only  garden  is  a  rickety  soap-box  high 
up  on  a  fire-escape,  share  this  love,  which  must  have 
a  plant  to  tend,  with  those  whose  gardens  cover 
acres  and  whose  plants  have  been  gathered  from  all 
the  countries  of  the  world. 

How  often  in  summer,  when  called  to  town,  and 
when  driving  through  the  squalid  streets  to  the  fer- 
ries, or  riding  on  the  elevated  road,  one  sees  these 
gardens  of  the  poor!  Sometimes  they  are  only  a 
Geranium  or  two,  or  the  gay  Petunia.  Often  a  tall 
Sunflower,  or  a  Tomato  plant  red  with  fruit. 
These  efforts  tell  of  the  love  of  the  growing  things, 
and  of  the  care  that  makes  them  live  and  blossom 
against  all  odds.  One  feels  a  thrill  of  sympathy 
with  the  owners  of  the  plants  and  wishes  that  some 

day  their  lot  may  be  cast  in  happier  places,  wher 
they  too  may  have  gardens  to  tend. 

Helen  Ruthurford  Ely. 

Even  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  Town 
A  Garden  in  which  nothing  thrives  has  charms 
That  soothe  the  rich  possessor;  much  consoled 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 
Of  nightshade  or  valerian,  grace  the  wall 
He  cultivates.  mniam 

Cowslips,  wind  your  yellow  ribbon  through  the  low 

green  meadow, 

Violets  in  the  pasture,  put  on  your  hoods  of  blue; 
The  children  of  the  poor  man  have  no  grand  garden 

They  have  neither  rose  nor  lily,  and  they  depend  on 


Make  haste,  O  airy  columbine,  to  trim  your  scarlet 


And  stand  upon  the  hillside  in  beautiful  array  ; 
O  darling  pink  azalea,  unfold  your  lovely  blossoms, 
Like  flakes  of  sunset  vapor,  and  make  the  woodland 


Start  up  in  every  field,  ye  hosts  of  crimson  clover; 
Scatter  gold,  O  dandelions,  along  the  grassy  floor  ; 
Bring  forth  your  rosy  whorls,  O  wild  briar  in  the 

hedges  ; 
O  dainty  daisies,  come  and  fill  the  gardens  of  the  poor  ! 

Mary  Frances  Butts. 

Flowers  seem  intended  for  the  solace  of  ordinary 
humanity ;  children  love  them ;  tender,  contented, 
ordinary  people  love  them.  They  are  the  cottager's 
treasure;  and  in  the  crowded  town  mark,  as  with 

a  little  fragment  of  rainbow,  the   windows  of  the 
little  workers  in  whose  heart  rests  the  covenant  of 


John  Ruskin. 

Clje  ^meli  of  a 

After  ten  wearisome  weeks  of  travel  across  an 
unknown  sea,  to  an  equally  unknown  world,  the 
group  of  Puritan  men  and  women  who  were  the 
founders  of  Boston  neared  their  Land  of  Promise  ; 
and  their  noble  leader,  John  Winthrop,  wrote  in  his 
Journal  that  "we  had  now  fair  Sunshine  Weather 
and  so  pleasant  a  sweet  Aire  as  did  much  refresh  us, 
and  there  came  a  Smell  off  the  Shore  like  the  Smell 
of  a  Garden." 

*  *  *  What  must  that  sweet  air  from  the  land  have 
been  to  the  sea-weary  Puritan  women  on  shipboard, 
laden  to  them  with  its  promise  of  a  garden,  for  I 
doubt  not  every  woman  bore  with  her  across  seas 
some  little  package  of  seeds  and  bulbs  from  her 
English  home  garden  !  AKc€  Mgrse 

And  because  the  Breath  of  Flowers  is  far  sweeter 
in  the  Aire  (when  it  comes  and  goes  like  the  Warb- 
ling of  Music)  than  in  the  hand,  therefore  nothing 
is  more  fit  for  that  delight  than  to  know  what  be  the 
Flowers  and  Plants  that  doe  best  perfume  the  Aire. 

Francis  Bacon    (Lord  Verulam). 

The  Garden  glows, 

And  'gainst  its  walls  the  city's  heart  still  beats, 
And  out  from  it  each  summer  wind  that  blows 

Carries  some  sweetness  to  the  tired  streets  ! 

Margaret  Delano1. 

Does  not  the  scent  of  the  primrose,  the  violet 
and  the  cowslip  sometimes  transport  us  to  the  banks 

and  meads  where  first  we  found  them,  and  restore, 
though  but  for  a  few  seconds,  the  tender  grace  of  a 

day  that  is  dead?  S.  Reynolds  Hole. 

How  sweetly  smells  the  Honeysuckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were  one 
Of  utter  peace  and  love  and  gentleness! 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

Perfumes  are  the  feelings  of  flowers,  and  as  the 
human  heart  feels  most  powerful  emotions  in  the 
night,  when  it  believes  itself  to  be  alone  and  unper- 
ceived,  so  also  do  the  flowers,  soft-minded,  yet 
ashamed,  appear  to  await  for  concealing  darkness, 
that  they  may  give  themselves  wholly  up  to  their 
feelings,  and  breathe  them  out  in  sweet  odours. 

Heinrich  Heine. 

of  tl)e 

The  flowers  of  the  sea  are  flowers  more  in  ap- 
pearance than  in  reality.  Seen  in  masses  through 
the  clear  water  they  look  like  beds  of  mountain 
pinks  or  fields  of  fern  or  hillsides  of  wild  asters, 
with  moss  and  ice-plant  and  cactus  growths  scattered 
between;  but  the  likeness  is  superficial.  The  plants 
are  very  different  from  those  known  on  the  earth. 
They  have  no  root,  they  absorb  nothing  from  the 
soil,  they  require  neither  rain  nor  air,  and  some  of 
them  manage  to  exist  with  little  or  no  light.  There 
are  no  blossoming  forms,  no  leaves,  seldom  any 
fruit ;  and  while  there  are  growths  having  a  foothold 
on  the  bottom  that  rise  up  through  a  thousand  feet 
of  water  to  float  ball-shaped  tangles  upon  the  sur- 
face, yet  in  form  they  are  not  at  all  like  trees.  The 
"trunk"  that  climbs  upward  so  many  feet  is  no 
larger  than  one's  finger,  and  the  bunch  of  weed  at 

the  surface  that  makes  a  sleeping-place  for  the  sea- 
otter  has  nothing  like  the  foliage  of  the  maple  or 
the  blossom  of  the  horse-chestnut. 

And  what  of  those  plants  far  down  in  the  sea- 
gardens  that  never  feel  the  push  of  waves,  those 
plants  that  never  move  or  are  moved  from  age  to 
age?  Are  they  perhaps  modeled  upon  the  same 
pattern  as  their  cousins  near  the  shore  ?  By  no 
means.  In  the  depths  where  no  storm  or  wave 
ruffles  the  eternal  serenity  nature  is  free  to  expand  ; 
and  there  she  grows  plants  of  symmetrical  designs 
with  no  fear  of  their  accidental  destruction.  Won- 
derful forms  she  models  —  crimson  weeds  with 
plumy  fronds,  purple  dulses  with  lace-like  patterns, 
iridescent  mosses  with  antlered  branches.  Countless 
algtfj  wing-shaped,  threaded  with  lines,  cupped  and 
domed,  starred  and  crossed  and  circled,  are  there. 
"In  the  wine-dark  depths  of  the  crystal,  the 

gardens  of  Nireus, 
Coral  and  sea-fan  and  tangle,  the  blooms  and  the 

palms  of  the  ocean, 
Stand  in  meadows  and  forests  unchanging,  un- 

fading from  decade  to  decade." 

John  C.  van  Dyke. 

<0arfcen  at 

Pink  and  white  and  gold 

'Mid  the  waning  light, 
Stars  that  first  unfold 

At  the  gate  of  night; 
Peeping  o'er  the  pansy  beds, 

Flashing  through  the  phlox, 
A  blessing  on  your  bonny  heads, 

Happy  four-o'clocks  ! 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 

As  children  bid  the  guest  good  night, 
And  then  reluctant  turn, 
My  flowers  raise  their  pretty  lips, 
Then  put  their  nightgowns  on. 

As  children  caper  when  they  wake, 
Merry  that  it  is  morn, 
My  flowers  from  a  hundred  cribs 
Will  peep,  and  prance  again. 

Emily  Dickinson. 

We  know  they  sleep;  at  eve  the  Daisy  small 

Foldeth  all  up 
Her  sun-tipp'd  rays;  and  the  wave's  empress  *  shuts 

Her  starlit  cup ; 

And  each  fair  flower,  though  some  with  open  eye, 
Listens  and  yields  to  nature's  lullaby. 

The  nodding  Foxglove  slumbers  on  her  stalk, 

And  fan-like  ferns 
Seem  poised  still  and  sleepily,  until 

The  morn  returns 

With  singing  birds  and  beams  of  rosy  light 
To  bid  them  dance  and  frolic  in  delight. 

The  drowsy  Poppy,  who  has  all  the  day 

Proudly  outspread 
His  scarlet  mantle,  folds  it  closely  now 

Around  his  head; 

And,  lull'd  by  soothing  balm  that  his  own  leaves  distil, 
Sleeps  while  the  night-dews  fall  upon  the  moonlit  hill. 

*The  Water-lily.  Louisa  Ann  Twamley. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stir'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

*         *         *         *          *         *         * 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 

A  Little  Song 

The  sunset  in  the  rosy  west 

Burned  soft  and  high  : 
A  shore-lark  fell  like  a  stone  to  his  nest 

In  the  waving  rye, 

A  wind  came  over  the  garden  beds 

From  the  dreamy  lawn, 
The  pansies  nodded  their  purple  heads, 

The  poppies  began  to  yawn. 

One  pansy  said:   It  is  only  Sleep, 

Only  his  gentle  breath: 
But  a  rose  lay  strewn  in  a  snowy  heap, 

For  the  rose  it  was  only  death. 

Heigho,  we've  only  one  life  to  live, 
And  only  one  death  to  die : 

Good-morrow,  new  world,  have  you  nothing 

to  give? — 
Good-bye,  old  world,  good-bye. 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott. 

Flower  Dreams 

The  sleeping  earth,  with  thick  white  veil, 
By  winter's  hand  is  covered  o'er; 

She  waits  in  slumber  still  and  pale, 
Till  spring  awaken  her  once  more. 

As  without  care  the  weary  child 

Nestles  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

So  sleep  the  flowers,  earth's  children  mild, 
Close  to  her  frost-bound  bosom  pressed. 

They  dream  of  breezes  blowing  fair, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  sparkling  dews, 

Of  fragrant  odors  sweet  and  rare, 

Of  waving  woods  and  springtime  hues. 

Each  dreaming  flower  lifts  up  its  head 
To  view  the  splendor  far  and  near; 

When  lo!  the  lovely  dream  has  fled, 
And,  verily,  the  spring  is  here! 


dffat&eng  of  tye  *a>oul 

A  Garden! — The  word  is  in  itself  a  picture,  and 
what  pictures  it  reveals  !  All  through  the  days  of 
childhood  the  garden  is  our  fairy-ground  of  sweet 
enchantment  and  innocent  wonder.  From  the  first 
dawn  of  thought  when  we  learned  our  simple  les- 
sons of  Eden  and  its  loss,  and  seemed  to  see  the 
thornless  garden,  watered  with  clear  streams,  beauti- 
ful with  spreading  trees,  and  the  train  of  unnamed 
beasts  and  birds  meekly  passing  before  their  spotless 
lord ;  and  then  beyond ;  far  onward  to  that  other 

garden  beloved  by  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  Gethsemane, 
where  we  could  never  picture  the  blossoming  of  roses, 
or  murmurous  hum  of  summer  bees,  but  only  the 
sombre  garden  walks,  and  One  kneeling  among  the 
olives,  and  dark,  heavy  drops  upon  the  grass,  and 
near  to  this,  the  Garden  of  the  Sepulchre — in  a 
dewy  dawn-light,  angel -haunted.  These  were  our 
Gardens  of  the  Soul.  ((£  r  B»  (/^  M^  B^ 

He  that  walkes  with  God  can  never  want  a  good 
walke,  and  good  company.  There  is  no  garden  well 
contrived  but  that  which  hath  an  Enoch's  walk  in  it. 

Sir  William  Waller. 

The  Garden  of  Forgiveness 

There  is  a  garden,  far,  oh,  far  away, 

Kept  for  the  souls  who  sinned  and  suffered  most. 
The  sword  of  God  forever  guards  the  way, 

And  round  its  borders  camps  a  heavenly  host. 

A  gentle  wind  breathes  through  the  tufted  grass, 
Rich  with  the  scent  of  roses  in  their  bloom; 

And,  with  the  wind,  all  sins  and  sorrows  pass, 
Leaving  a  sweet  contentment  in  their  room. 

Here  are  no  troubles;  here  are  none  that  weep; 

Here  come  no  thoughts  of  sadness  or  despair; 
But  fairest  flowers,  in  fullest  beauty,  sleep ; 

And  softest  sunlight  fills  the  dreaming  air. 

The  murmurings  of  fountains,  low  and  sweet, 
Forever  fill  the  ear  and  never  cease, 

Soothing  the  silence  with  a  gentle  heat, 

Like  kindly  voices  speaking  words  of  peace. 

And  here,  forever  and  forever  rest 

The  weary  souls,  unburdened  of  their  sin ; 

And  cursed  things  are  here  forgiven  and  blessed; 
And  wicked  hearts  are  made  all  clean  within. 

Bertrand  Shadwell. 

The  Garden  of  Rest 

Girdled  with  elms,  wherein  the  loud  rooks  build, 
With  dreaming  hush  of  its  remoteness  filled, 
Where  every  sound  that  breaks  the  slumb'rous  air 
Accentuates  the  peace  that  lingers  there, 
One  of  God's  restful  grave-set  gardens  lies, 
Where  His  flowers  sleep  till  He  shall  bid  them 

nse*  Edith  Nesbit  Bland. 

1-3*  .  i'-f^Mii1: 

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